They march in rank and file, their boots causing the ground beneath him to shudder. The steel of their armour glistens as they pass. It’s only a few more moments before their pointed weapons find a resting place in an Alexanderian soldier. Excitement pulses through his body and fills him with forgotten thrills. All their training, his own sacrifice, leads to the battle before him. He can’t contain the grin cracking his face as the arrows thunder into the air.

Watching them spill over the hilltop, knowing some of them will never return, fills him with pride. They chose this despite the cost; true nobility. As his commanders fight the Alexanderian forces, he turns his attention to the heavy cages rolling behind him. Combinations of men and powerful workhorses pull them through the soft earth. Inside, are the sleeping dragons he recovered from Dragon Haven. Beyond them the battle thunders, but they don’t flinch; the flute’s magic is remarkable. They’re peaceful in their repose, he hates to disturb them, but their time has come.

He motions to the armoured men behind him. They drag their squirming guest to his side. He’s caked in clumps of mud and soot; his thinning hair hangs limp over his ears. He’s almost unrecognisable with his battered swollen face. But he still scowls as Remo approaches. Good Tyrann hasn’t beaten the spirit out of him yet.

“One more time, my lord,” He hands him the glass treasure. At first, he turns his head, sticks up his nose like it’s a foul smell. But they know how this battle ends.

“I hope you understand what you’re forcing me to do,”

“We all die sometime. It is beneficial that the enemy dies a bit faster.”

“I can’t guarantee only Alexanderian’s forces are targeted.”

“Alona takes those who she requires. Any last words, my lord?”

“I’m sorry," his lips tremble. Cupping his shaking hands he prays, “take her in your arms Holy Mother. Such a flower doesn't belong in the caves built from bones. She deserves better. I'm sorry, I couldn’t save them from this fate.”

“Oh, it is not as bad as it seems,” Remo smirks. “Think of your dear daughter; sitting beyond that Gate. Think how happy she will be to see her beloved pets once more.”

“Sara? Sara’s there, in Alexanderia? Alive?” He hates the hope he sees bubbling in the old man’s face. The tears streaking down his dirty face makes his blood boil. Lord Rose falls to his knees and speaks to the heavens. “The Mage kept her word.”

“I would not get too attached to the idea,” he hands him the flute.

“She kept her word…my little girl is alive.” he whispers to himself as he lifts the flute to his cracked lips.

There’s never any music when he plays. Its ridiculous as a bystander watching a grown man play make believe. Thinking he’s a talented musician with a fake flute. Or so that was his original thought when he first saw it. But now he knows to watch the dragons, and not the man. He motions to the commander who gives the order to unlock the cages.

The rusty doors screech before falling open with a clatter. Most of them keep their distance, hiding behind wagons or horses. He can’t blame them, one or two of them fell victim to the dragons before. The horses sidestep, nudging at the other to get out of the way. But the beasts begin to stir. Their harden claws tap against the metal floors. Tails shift, curling around the bars. Lord Rose continues his song, his shoulders straight and tall, but as the first scarlet beasts slither from their prison his posture changes.

The flute hangs between his limp fingers, and Remo witnesses what he’s waiting for so long to see. The hopelessness and grief washing over his face. If only he had plaster, to immortalize the expression. The ground shakes as the last to awaken, step cautiously into the mud. Unlike the smaller ones, they aren’t as inclined to take flight. They dig their claws into the soil, sniff at the horses, and scan the cloudless sky. They’re leader, or so he assumes, stares at Lord Rose, taking glances of the flute and his face. A conversation passes between them. He can’t take any more chances; with a nod the soldier puts the sword to Lord Roses neck.

“Finish it.”

The final song makes the glass fog. Not one note reaches his ears but the black dragons’ hiss. Forked tongues lick the smoky air. The scarlet ones circle above, roaring to those below. Gusts from the ebony wings force him backwards. They take to the sky, unleashing bursts of flames over the unlucky few.

“It’s done.” He whispers, his body trembles, as they fly towards the armies. “Sara, forgive me.”

He can’t help but smirk as the soldier slides the sword across the man's throat. He wipes the blood from the blade as the body crumples to the ground. The vibrant crimson spilling over the grass. He kicks the instrument from the twitching fingers and smashes it with his boot heel. Now no one can control them. Let Alona decide their fate.

Deep inhuman growls pierce the air, the soil quivers and soldiers from both sides pause to observe the dismal sky above. For a moment the anguished battle stops as the world's rotation comes to a screeching halt. Monstrous creatures break free of smoke cover and descend over the valley. From their jagged jaws blasts of fire sear the field; igniting corpses and critical supplies. They swoop like devils from all directions. Their swords are useless. Sharp stained claws pluck men from their feet and vast wings carry them to new heights. But their comrade’s flight is short lived as the bodies plummet below.

Tyrann approaches from beyond the hill carrying his lance. He refuses to make eye contact with the body as he approaches. No doubt he probably grew attached to their captive. But like the pigs he had another purpose. He’ll make peace with the slaughter eventually. For now, they had to move on to the next step of his plan.

“You have word of our volunteers?”

“They infiltrated the palace a few days ago. Once they see these beasties, they’ll know what to do.”

“And you are certain they are up to the task?”

“They’ve handled bigger fish than this. I doubt she’ll give them much trouble either.”

At the crest, he spies the carnage in full swing. His catapults fling boulders upon them, rolling and crushing any unfortunate who’s underneath. Archers cast their arrows sending them spinning to the opposite side. The progress is slow, both groups slam together in the middle of the valley. The winner is chosen by inches not miles. And Alexanderia is holding their line. Across from him is the legendary Gate. The pride he once felt defending it is long gone. Its nothing more than an obstacle; an old reminder of a dying age. And he’ll see to it that’s its dismantled stone by stone.

The ground shudders as it cracks open. Gapping holes erupt across the field. He doesn’t like surprises, and to his dismay something unexpected rolls over his men. He watches, spellbound, as a boulder flings over the dirt. No catapult, nor dragon, but her. Her robes shimmering like a beacon among the grime. Now that he spies her, he can’t look away. She’s composed and resolute. A heroic sight, perfect for a temple mural. Its an image bards die to immortalize in song. And it churns his stomach.

Heavy rocks fly on invisible strings; bowling over her opponents. Mages don’t fight in battle. A rule he came to realise when he advanced through the ranks. The army had Mages but in support roles and never on the battlefield. Even in Bellavere, he lost many potential soldiers because of their outright refusals to engage in combat. It was a great purge of the army, bittersweet in a way. Such potential only to have their flames extinguished. Which is why he didn’t expect her here. He thought her advisors would talk her out of it. He thought she was smart enough to listen.

Each throw vibrates in his boots. Two, three, four men maybe, lay flat in her wake. Where is her guard? Nonexistent. She’s alone, undefended, and unapologetic. He thought he prepared his men for everything, but some catch fire. They flail, scream and collapse in balls of flames. It needs to end. She needs to be stopped once and for all.

Like a rodent she claws her way to him on the hill. Her ivory robes soiled with sweat and soot. But he catches glimpses of her face between the struggle to reach him. He envisions slicing her porcelain throat and displaying her head in the courtyard. But a more delicious idea twists into his conscience. Paint the throne room with Avalon blood. Like he did before.

When she flops over the crest, he doesn’t move. What does it say about the cat when the mouse climbs onto the plate of its own accord. The meal lays before him, panting and exhausted. Below them his soldiers murder hers. It isn’t supposed to end like this. He had a plan and once again, she derails everything. She pulls herself up, sweaty and pale, she barely has the strength to stand. He hates for her to lose her fiery passion. He prefers they fight until their sinew gives out, their bones break, and their hearts lose the strength to continue; like her mother.

He senses his Beloved now, but even this soil is beyond her control; battle is his true domain. Moira is their last connection. His Beloved refuses reason, for that he'll make her suffer; he'll kill the last Avalon. Her death, like his purgatory, will be slow and painful. Their uncanny is thrilling. Why is his Beloved reincarnated into the terrified child before him? But it's all there: her crystal eyes, strong cheekbones, and the golden locks he yearns to stroke. He didn’t think he'd touch such beauty again, but here it is.

“You remind me of her,” he strokes her chin. A bloody figure solidifies and screams as it passes from her through him. “You’re just like her!” he hisses, slamming his sword’s hilt against her collarbone. But her screams don’t quell his thirst, he needs more. She dodges another strike, but she can’t run, not when he’s so close. He draws his sword from the sheath.

“I was afraid my men killed you before I had the pleasure for myself.”

“I’m full of surprises.” She moves her staff to the attack position.

“What do you believe in Your Majesty?” He steps to his right. She to the left. “Love? Peace?”

“I believe in my army.”

“Your army will fall, if not today, certainly tomorrow.”

“All that matters is today, tomorrow is still far away.”

“Your grandfather was like that too, always waited until the next day…until tomorrow never came.”

They circle each other, both waiting for the moment to strike.