he young lad marched along his comrades, his sight tunnelled by his helm. The only thing he saw was the silver armour of the man in front of him, and the blue sky in the corners. But he could still hear a lot more.

As the howling desert gale swept through their ranks, he heard the noise of spear against shield, axe against armour, fire against flesh, might against madness . . . all mingled with the shrieks of the dead and dying.

As he tilted his head and looked forward, he saw his comrades in dire situation: some of them gave in to bloodlust, turning to monsters that ploughed through enemy lines like scythe through wheat; others fell in fear as their friends died, dropping their shields and fleeing the field.

"Let them go," said Prince Soren, Grand-Centurion, letting the fleeing soldiers out of harm.

"What are you doing?" Sareth, cousin of Vilyánur, complained in vie, "they are but selfish and cowardly, and they bring shame to our kingdom."

Soren turned towards him, giving him a placated look: "One day when your platoon is but spent and you are the last man standing, you will understand."

"I hope to die before that happens, fighting as a hero."

Soren laughed, "brother, there are no heroes in this war, nor are there villains, there are only men – some victors, others victims. And heroes are not those who kill, but those who spare."

Sareth looked at him in confusion, "I do not get you, brother."

"The day you are become centurion, you shall."

A horn bellowed at a distance, signalling the first line to disengage and the second to replace them. The young lad alongside Sareth and Soren watched as soldiers on both sides routed, some even dying in the process. They stayed behind, ordered to stand with their legate until he himself prepared to charge. Light infantrymen lobbed arrows, javelins and stones into the blobbed mess that thronged behind the main line, in attempt to tie them down.

It was working: though hard the enemy's shieldwall was, it was slow and lazy. They held their shields up, unable to halt the charging maniples that crashed against them, wearing down the already tired soldiers, obliterating them right where they stood.

"Comrades, look on," said Soren, pointing at the front lines. "When you are become centurions yourself, the lives of both friend and foe will be in your hands, so will their blood. And then remember: to fight and win all your battles is not supreme excellence; supreme excellence is breaking the enemy's resistance without fighting."

Somewhere up there, those words seem to echo, almost into eternity. "The greatest victory is that which requires no battle. As an honourable warrior, it is your duty to avoid war as long as possible. But if you have to, remember to strike without regret-"

"Ambush!" a soldier shouted in the distance. "They've outflanked us."

They looked back over the horizon: out of the desert sands appeared heavy-cavalry, three hundred strong, their lances tipped towards the third line.

"Arm yourselves!" shouted Soren, preparing his elite legionnaires for battle.

...

Again, in the face of imminent danger, they formed a wall of shields. The boy positioned himself in the centre, Sareth and Soren beside him, forming a castle where they stood. But if they were a castle, then like stones lobbed from a trebuchet the enemy fell upon them, their lances penetrating their hardwood shields. Most of them didn't even see it, all they saw was perhaps a portrait of their loved ones, or symbols of the gods they prayed to, ere a splinter of wood, or a metal tip burst through into their eyes and skulls, killing them outright.

Many a rider died as well, but the charge was devastating. The boy watched as his companions fell one by one, cut down by sword or skewered by a lance, some with their heads bludgeoned by a heavy mace.

He heard shrieks all around, echoing ominously in his head. This wasn't the first time he had been in a battle, but for some reason this one was much worse than all the times before.

His time had come, a rider had neared. He swung his blade, but it bounced off the rider's mail harmlessly. He struck again, but his weapon did the rider no harm, and this time the knight struck back, landing a heavy blow of club on his head.

He dropped his sword, grasping his head and falling back. In his mind he heard a ringing, foul and dark, his head aching, as if threatening to burst open. Soldiers around him shouted in And in the midst of the shouting he could hear a strange whisper, as if someone was calling his name.

"Vilyánur!"

He looked up, Soren had arrived for him.

The knight looked him in the eye as he looked back, and he swung again. And Soren remained steadfast, blocking his blow with a swift move of his longsword; he turned it over and landed a strike of the crossguard on his head, knocking the knight off his horse.

"Vil," Soren helped him up, "are you hurt?"

"No," Vil replied, ever so silently.

"Good," Soren embraced him, breathing heavily in fear, "do not fear, as long as I'm alive, nothing bad can happen to you."

Vil embraced his cousin back, sobbing silently, his head still aching from the strike. "Vil," a voice called for him, as the world started to fade around him. "Vil!"

Alas, the world faded to black, and Lord Vilyánur opened his eyes in an apartment, snuggling below soft furs, his hand on the amulet his cousin had gifted him. "As an honourable warrior, it is your duty to avoid war as long as possible. But if you have to, remember to strike without regret." – The words echoed in his head.