Through the smoke and chaos, I saw their commander. A mountain of a man in blackened armor, barking orders, keeping Hedar's forces from breaking. If he fell, they all would.
With what strength I had left, I pushed forward. Each step was agony, fire burning inside me, my vision darkening at the edges. But I did not stop.
He saw me coming. We met in the middle of the battlefield, our weapons clashing in a storm of sparks. He was stronger. But I was faster. Smarter.
I ducked under a wild swing, stepped into his guard, and plunged my blade into his throat.
Silence fell.
For a moment, neither side moved. Then—chaos. Hedar's soldiers saw their leader fall, and their lines wavered. Fear took root. The tide turned. Azov surged forward with renewed fury, cutting them down, forcing them into retreat.
We had won.
But my body had lost.
The curse took its toll. My legs crumpled beneath me, and the last thing I saw before darkness claimed me was the sight of my soldiers chanting my name.