Ditches. There were ditches that harbored servants like me. And above the dirt, within a few paces, lay the camp apart bustling with men-at-arms. Torches relayed the position of our Duke's men, their lights - signals penetrating the mist.

As I sit in my hollow space, I see but one armored comrade across from me. He looks back through his visor, and for a moment I swear I see a semblance of a grin.

"INCOMING!"

After hearing a shout, we witness a ball of fire tearing the sky, until it smashes in the center of our encampment. And so our men rally from around the camp, knowing the enemy to be close. Very close indeed.

I can tell by the wail that at least one man has suffered. Sprinting for the point of impact, I reach the white tents below pale crimson banners. I see him wailing in pain, his arm torn and spilling. Yet I cannot fixate on his dismemberment, for the inevitable horn has sounded, thus rallying every warrior as few tend to the suffering conscript. My lot lies with those marching. But I catch the sound of hooves. Contrary to our formation of a line, several of the lord's vassals strap their horses and rush into the mist at breakneck speed, whence the fireball came.

Men-at-arms line up along the camp outskirts in a standard battle formation. Hundreds... maybe a thousand. I couldn't hope to count. Once the infantry is set, accompanying horsemen cover our flanks, and outside the ranks I see Lord Valeroșu galloping on his dark armored stallion. Always, he prostrates before his army in a full suit of armor, ever-prudent and bold before the onset of battle. Helmet fastened, he draws and lifts his longsword, whirling it overhead and chanting his rallying cry. Then sauntering down the line, he arrives with eyes temporarily set on me. And looking down, he grants me a confirmation-seeking gaze. He expects me to lead them, leave them in a mist so thick that no outcome other than chaos could ensue. I nod.

Suddenly, a horn blows from across the masking fields. They're coming to us. We brace ourselves: shields in front, spears aligned, and a steady march forward in a mist that pitted us against the unknown.

"There's no need for fear. It shall only hinder you." I hear this man beside me. Turning, I see it is he from the ditch, a comrade seeking to gauge my readiness for battle. I respond in kind, "One must be capable of fear." I say this despite having forgotten fear. Why did I say it?

We turn our attention forward. Now, we can hear the marching sound of another body. It grows nearer. Nearer. The stomping of their troop treads nearly in unison with our own. Each passing second without visibility feeds the fervor of our line. Unlike my comrades, however, I can sense their proximity. I know the position of the enemy troops and I pick up the pace, quickly exceeding the speed of my company. In time, they match my march after me. They halt when I do, resume as I do, taking after the intensity of my gait and, as necessary, follow. I never intended for this, yet sensed that it would. My lord must have known as well.

I'm running now, running with an army at my back. We see the enemy—only a swift second before colliding. They march beneath banners emblazoned by a sun. The distinct eight-sided star. But there is no sun, only warriors and peasants charging en masse across a mist-laden field. Volatile war shouts erupt at the onset of battle. "FOR VORACIA!"

***

"Dane!"

I hear him call my name once again, and I respond, "Yes, milord?"

"Dispose of the agitators."

I hesitate. My mind skips the action and resorts to the question – Why must I kill them? They are but helpless peasants at my mercy. Peasants who are no threat, who suffer from fate, yet I am no instrument of fate but a faithless man. Before I move, I stop and look at my hands, for I wish to see for myself. And though I cannot see, they are obviously stained.

"I don't wish to end their lives, milord."

I hear steps come to an abrupt halt. "Speak again for clarity, Dane," my lord requited. "I think I misheard you." I can almost feel the heat from his voice.

"By thy mercy, I wish to be spared from this task, milord."

He turns around. "Oh..."—strokes his chin—"Nay. Proceed with my command." This time he dallies, watching and waiting for resolution. Although, I am unmoving as my eyes rise and fall on him. My lord is a man tall, bound in gold-gilded steel, the plates spread passed every joint of his body. His blood-brown mane distinguishes him from a distance, and his seething grin can incur a common man's blenching. This day he does not grin, however, his sharp brown eyes and cheeks resting resentfully on me. "You sword is not even drawn, endeared devil of this domain. Since when do you delay for the most trivial task?" The guards note our exchange by this point, letting it distract them from their quelling of the crowd. When I fail to heed my lord's command, his eyes harangue over me, lifeless eyes scowling after my volition. I subtly note his hand slithering for his sword. "What detail of this simple task must I impart, my wicked lieutenant?"

"I do not wish to end their lives, milord."

"And since when doth thou decide?" He raises his arm, a signal. The guards heed his command and approach the gallows, leaving no more room for indecision. This action diminishes the earlier uproar, as the crowd is now attentive to our exchange of words.

"I suppose, hitherto, decisions of mine were nothing less a whim of thine own make. But senseless blood on my hands. No more..."

Valeroșu draws his sword. "Then thou doth protest, treachery punishable by whatever method I see fit. Thou knoweth."

I take a deep breath. "I understand this fact rather intimately."

I sprint towards him with fleet of foot, faster than he can react. I reach him, grip his sword hand, and whisper in his ear, "Find another, milord." And so he falls from the force of my head-butt, his suit of steel clanking against the ground.

"Ack!"

All the people were stunned—undeniably less stunned than he, however.

As expected, the guards level their spears, yet slowly and unsurely--as if they were too bewildered by my defiance. I did not wait for them to collect. Unthinking, I dragged the incapacitated peasants away from Lord Valeroșu and beseeched the crowd, "Help these ones!" before beginning my jaunt through and across the collective.

"Seize him!" the lord shrieked. I parted my way through the anxious mob as speedily as I was able, straight past those wooden gates. I knew I had to mask my movements. Thus, I ran past the sheltered village, letting my knowledge of the patrols inform my turning of corners. Castle Kraghaven has always been, first and foremost, a garrison; remembering this, I run faster lest the entire garrison catches wind of my deed.

Through one more alley do I find the smithies hammering away at their metal, oblivious to me. I can see the outer gate entrance, and so check both directions before making my way thither. "Close the gate!" they shout at my back. "Close it!" Two gate guards are stationed there to oppose my escape, poised to seal my exit altogether. My next gambit seems unavoidable.

Anticipating bloodshed once more, I reach for my extensions. I hold in my hands two daggers. However, to my surprise, the impending guards make no move against me. As I approach, they see me and act oblivious to their orders, allowing my sprint directly past that fortified gatehouse. Curious. 'Tis a fleeting second, but a redeemable one, as I glimpse their faces in passing: defiance, conviction, and character I see. I remember them both.

***

As predicted, the clash between armies left droves of fallen spilling their blood on the dampness of the earth. I could maintain but the slightest account of my comrades in such carnage, running the path of bloodshed and seeking no other route. One after another, enemy assailants fell by my intervention, the green tabards of their armor succumbing to red stains. Such was the uniform fate that befell any fighter in my path. None survived, and I slew them faster than my kinsmen could fall. Bare bones of battle: slay before being slain. Eventually, I came across one Voracian betwixt two opposing men-at-arms. I could not hesitate after witnessing his plight. In the midst of hacked flesh and war shouts, I grabbed one by the chin and slit his throat.

Two more enemies sought after me. A peasant soldier in his loose helmet and gambeson, fatally an amateur, charges with his sword overhead. After my high deflection, his blade runs along the length of mine—to the side and away. When his sword steers off its intended path, he leaves himself open; hence, I thrust and strike the joint in his shoulder. It is following my stab that I understand his martial imprudence. He is a conscript, and conscripts seldom understand that strength matters; form more so. I consider this as I release my blade from his throat.

Knights are immune to the same stakes. One charges me, striking from the side. I parry. He jerks back, switches his forward foot, and then lunges. I evade. Intervention. I take my longsword with both hands and jolt forward, piercing him below his visor, a discernible region between helmet and hauberk assimilated into my practice years ago. So he falls, armor clanking, to mark my second knight dispatched. A brief respite lets me lift my kinsman from the dirt. And rising to his feet, he stares excitedly, catching his breath and nodding in relief.

Following the rescue, I hear quick, thunderous hooves - Enemy chevaliers approaching from the flank.

"Withdraw!" I cry.

As the hooves draw near, I can tell they are few in number - stragglers. Unfortunately, a clearing mist leaves them a clear line of sight to harass our motley grouping. In anticipation, I call for reformation—a call to which sundry warriors respond. Many Voracians withdraw to the rear while the enemy cavalry makes all haste. Spearmen begin lining up to cover the fleeing vanguard. Yet I still see allied stragglers, one, in particular, crawling and near to being trampled. With all the vigor in my feet, I run after him - To this day, I don't necessarily understand why.

I reach the man and drag him in a moment paralyzed by uncertainty. This glade in which we shed blood, it is thin and narrow, but the bodies can mask our presence if we sink utterly. The horsemen, they are blind to our station on the ground, and we barely escape the stomp of riders too eager to relieve their forces.

Once the cavalry charge half-wittingly crashes into the spear formation, another bloody impact leaves men falling from their horses. They are then bludgeoned, if not skewered, against the mud. As I hear the fighting, I imagine a mud painted thicker in red. Meanwhile, the man I rescued cocks his gaze at me. Apparently, the shock has left him speechless. Or it may be that my strange visage has informed his reaction. Nonetheless, I assist him to his feet.

"I can walk on my own," he allays.

"As you say."

Per our duty, we saunter back to the sound of fighting. Alas, the cries suffocate as we draw near the lines. The enemy has already begun their retreat, their beleaguered army forfeiting to the laden hooves of our reinforcing cavalrymen. Just as the enemy sought to seize the advantage brought by the rising sun and its scattering of the mist, so too did our cavalry wings return hither and charge their main line. Thus, the sound of fighting surrendered to a solemn wind, dispersed only by cries of pain.

A curious sun tumults above the white mist; its first peek reveals the summit of dead this day, yet not before the fatigue readily consumes me. Chilled sweat, I feel it dripping, mixing with my adversaries' blood, concocting this unholy sensation swollen by the cold. This abominable sensation worsens when I look down unto the tarnished soil and notice the face of that man, the man who sat across from me in the ditch.

Today's fight left a hole I must writhingly bear in my breast. No gain, no victory, no peace. I am without restitution and my body quivers at what is permanently lost for the sake of nothing. Until my kinsman deigns to share words with me.

"Comrade..." I heard. "Dane... I owe you my life"

"What?"

"I owe thee thanks... a thousand thanks for seeing me through," he clarifies. "You are not the bloodthirsty devil of hearsay, and I shall remember that hereafter." His expression, it is propelled by relief; I have witnessed it before on men whom I've rescued. Yet 'thanks' was never their returning word. For this, my despair diminishes, and I decide not to forsake myself just yet.

Blessed with more time for my thoughts, I realize that, perhaps, there is one worthwhile triumph on the battlefield. No matter how obscure or how embroiled – it is steering a man's soul from twilight. The men I saved, now they save me, replacing my abnormal despair with a sustaining sense of redemption.

In my return to the present - my flight from Castle Kraghaven and Lord Valeroșu, I find a stable without a warden. My next course is apparent. One horse is already saddled. Someone left it. But who? I can afford no mind. So I mount, flick the reins, and the chestnut beast dashes forward. Out the citadel grounds, down the last pathway of thatch, I ride past the portcullis before I may be sealed behind the gate. Alas, out of Kraghaven Keep

It is a dim sky that falls above me, gray clouds that hinder the sun and let no more than a speck of white light decorate the green valley. While the wind smothered my face, I pondered if this, by some design, was freedom's beckoning.