Crystal of Creation

12. Fragments of the Battlefield

That night, the dream returned.

Kael found himself standing in the heart of a battlefield, a realm drenched in chaos where the air was thick with the acrid stench of blood and sweat. The sky above roiled with ominous storm clouds, painted a deep, unsettling gray, illuminated sporadically by violent bursts of magic that arced across the horizon like falling stars. Each flash was followed by the reverberating echoes of battle, a discordant symphony of clashing steel, guttural shouts, and the haunting screams of the fallen, creating a cacophony that was both terrifying and exhilarating.

Warriors swarmed around him—some clad in battered armor, others in grotesque forms, their appearances defying the natural order. They collided in a frenzied maelstrom of steel and sorcery, each strike punctuated by cries of rage and anguish. The clang of swords meeting shields sent vibrations through the air, and the ground beneath his feet trembled as bodies fell, felled by the brutality of their foes.

But this time, something was distinctly different. The dream was more vivid, sharp as if the details were etched into his mind with an unsettling clarity that was both exhilarating and terrifying. Every step Kael took through the mire of the battlefield left an imprint in the thick mud, each breath filled with the metallic tang of death and decay. It felt too real; it felt as if he were not merely an observer but a participant in this brutal dance of war.

Ahead, his gaze snapped to a figure amidst the chaos—a soldier, perhaps not much older than himself, standing his ground, clutching a sword with trembling hands. Desperation was carved into the man's features, his wide, terrified eyes darting anxiously from side to side, as if seeking an escape from the nightmarish reality encircling him. His armor, once glimmering with pride, was now battered and streaked with the crimson stains of blood—his own and that of his fallen comrades. Kael could see the soldier's breath coming in ragged gasps, the sheer weight of fear pressing down upon him as the circle of enemies tightened, their grins malevolent and triumphant.

Kael felt a surge of helplessness wash over him, an overwhelming urge to rush to the soldier's side, to shout a warning and offer aid. But his voice remained trapped in his throat; his feet felt anchored to the ground, as if the very earth conspired to keep him there, a powerless witness to the unfolding horror.

Just when it seemed the soldier would be overwhelmed, a shadow fell over him—a figure materializing from the chaos behind. It was the old man from Kael's previous dreams. His grizzled visage, marked by the passage of time, radiated a strange calm amidst the storm. White hair cascaded down his back in a loose knot, and his sharp, penetrating gaze sparkled with a knowing intensity, as if he held the secrets of the universe in his wisdom-worn eyes.

The old man placed a firm hand on the soldier's shoulder, leaning in close to whisper something inaudible over the din of battle. Kael strained to catch the words, but they were swallowed by the roar of chaos surrounding them. Yet the soldier's response was immediate; the trembling of his limbs stilled, and a look of grim determination replaced the terror etched across his features. With a forceful cry that cut through the clamor, he lunged forward, his sword arcing through the air like a harbinger of death.

Kael's heart raced as he watched the soldier, now infused with newfound ferocity, cut down enemy after enemy with an intensity that seemed impossible mere moments before. The old man, though silent now, radiated a presence that guided the soldier, a spectral force urging him onward, granting him a second wind amidst the carnage.

The scene shifted violently. In the blink of an eye, Kael was no longer a mere observer but found himself standing on the edge of a hill overlooking a vast expanse of death and destruction. The ground below was littered with the fallen, weapons half-buried in mud, their owners lost to time and memory. A sickening stillness blanketed the battlefield, punctuated only by the distant cries of the wounded and dying, the echoes of despair hanging heavy in the air like a shroud. The stench of blood was thick enough to choke, curling around him like a malevolent spirit.