The Fight

The clash between Rohan and Murtagh was a spectacle that sent tremors through the very heart of the moonlit hall. A tumultuous dance of power and hatred, they fought with all the intensity and ferocity that the moment demanded.

Rohan struck first, his shadow-formed blades cutting through the air like a swarm of deadly hornets. They were swift—so swift that they seemed to blur into one another—and deadly—so deadly that they left trails of icy fear in their wake. Murtagh reacted with lightning-quick reflexes, conjuring a protective magical shield. He managed to evade most of Rohan’s strikes, but a few shadowy blades managed to slice through his defenses, leaving bleeding gashes that stood out starkly against his pale skin.

Murtagh retaliated by conjuring a bolt of lightning that crackled and hissed like a deadly arrow aimed straight for Rohan’s heart. But he disappeared in a flash of smoke—one moment there, the next reappearing elsewhere like a phantom.

Their battle was more than a mere clash of power—it was a dance. A deadly ballet of hatred and rivalry that left a trail of destruction in its wake. They sprang onto tables with the grace of panthers, leaped over chairs with the ease of hawks, and circled each other like two storms on the verge of collision.

Rohan could feel Murtagh’s power pulsating in the air, could see the raw determination in his eyes. But he didn’t flinch;  instead, a cocky smirk graced his lips.

With lightning reflexes, Rohan twisted his body, narrowly avoiding the deadly bolt that crackled through the air like an electrified whip, striking the ground beside him with a deafening crack. Smirking, he taunted Murtagh, “Your aim’s as lousy as your loyalty, it seems.”

A low, guttural growl of frustration rumbled from Murtagh’s chest, his eyes blazing with anger.

Rohan’s steel-blue eyes—now black as the night—locked onto Murtagh with an intensity that seemed almost palpable. A chilling force surrounded Murtagh, lifting him off the ground as if he weighed no more than a feather, choking him with an invisible hand.

Agony contorted Murtagh’s face as his throat was constricted by an invisible force, a puppet on the strings of Rohan’s will. In a final act of contempt, he was flung across the hall like a discarded toy, crashing onto the cold marble with a painful thud that echoed ominously through the silent hall.

Rohan’s eyes returned to their usual color, but his determination remained unwavering.

Murtagh barely had a moment to regain his composure when Rohan advanced upon him like a storm, a force of unrelenting vengeance and hatred. Murtagh, sensing the impending threat, teleported to a distant part of the hall.

But Rohan was not deterred. His eyes locked onto Murtagh, his gaze as sharp and deadly.

With a wave of his hand, Murtagh unleashed a deadly volley of blood stakes—sharp projectiles made of hardened blood magic—that streaked through the air towards Rohan.

Rohan tried to dodge, but he wasn’t fast enough. Two stakes found their mark—one piercing his shoulder with a sickening crunch, the other biting into his thigh. A ragged cry escaped his lips as an excruciating pain flared through Rohan’s body, forcing him to one knee. Blood soaked his armor. The silent hall echoed with his agony—and his defiance.

Ororfin’s concern deepened as he watched the unfolding conflict. His brown eyes narrowed as he assessed Rohan’s condition. He was his friend—his brother—and he was in trouble. Elegil shared the same apprehension, his hands clenched into fists at his sides. They knew that Rohan was in trouble, but they also knew that he would not appreciate their interference.

Rohan glared at his enemy, his eyes burning with a fire that no wound could dim. With his hand clutching at the blood stake in his shoulder, his fingers dripping crimson, he gritted his teeth.

He would ignore the pain – or use it as fuel.

With a savage jerk, he yanked out the stake. A guttural cry of intense pain escaping him. His breath came in ragged gasps, but his gaze remained resolute. He tossed the stake aside—it vanished into thin air. Then he reached for the other one, embedded in his thigh. He pulled it out and another wave of lacerating pain forcing him to stifle a pained scream.

Ororfin moved to help him, but Helius stopped him with a hand on his shoulder. Rohan had made it clear—this was his fight. His alone.

Rohan rose to his feet, his body a mess of blood and bruises, yet his eyes blazed with an inner fire that defied the confines of his physical condition. His muscles screamed in protest, but with sheer determination, he forced himself to keep standing. He would not be defeated—not here, not now.

Murtagh’s eyes glittered with a savage glee as he surveyed Rohan’s bloodied and battered form. The air around him crackled and hummed, the very atoms seeming to vibrate with the force of the magic he was summoning. His hands blazed with a fierce, white light that cast harsh shadows on his merciless face.

He thrust his hands forward and a powerful surge of electricity erupted from his fingertips, a deadly bolt of lightning that split the air with a deafening roar.

Rohan barely had time to register the attack. The bolt slammed into his chest, sending a jolt of pain through his heart and lungs. Flying backward, he arced his body as the electricity coursed through him, propelling him across the room with violent convulsions. His teeth gritted against the torment, and a low growl ripped from his throat.

He crashed to the ground, still jerking from the aftershocks of Murtagh’s strike. Every nerve screamed with agony, and every breath he drew was a struggle.

But even as he lay there, gasping and writhing, there was a fierce determination in his eyes. It was a flame that burned brighter than the pain, a flame that threatened to devour everything in its way. It was the flame of a high lord who would not yield, who would not let his wounds define him.

Murtagh’s chilling laughter echoed through the hall. He was savoring his apparent victory, his eyes gleaming with malicious delight.

Rohan’s hand was a bloody ruin, trembling as he reached for the ground. Blood-slick fingers clawed at the cold, unforgiving floor, leaving crimson smears in their wake. Pain lanced through him like a thousand knives, a symphony of agony that made him grunt and gasp. His nostrils flared, blood trickling from his nose and mingling with the sweat on his upper lip.

Murtagh approached Rohan, who lay on the ground, battered and barely conscious. He bent down, his voice like a razor, cutting through Rohan’s soul. He had some injuries of his own, blood dripping from his forehead and several wounds on his body, but none of them seemed deep or serious. He smiled cruelly, enjoying Rohan’s suffering.

“Look at you, Rohan,” he sneered. “You thought you could stand against me, against my power? You’re nothing but a weakling, a fool, a miserable failure. You don’t deserve to live, let alone to rule.”

Rohan tried to push himself up, but his limbs gave out and he collapsed back to the ground. He ignored the black spots that danced in his vision, the darkness that threatened to swallow him whole. He clenched his jaw, silencing another scream. His body shook from the ruthless torment, but his eyes…his eyes blazed with defiance. He locked his gaze on Murtagh, the target of his wrath.

“Ah, it’s almost poetic,” Murtagh chuckled darkly, his voice dripped with venom as he continued, “I’ve seen this pitiful scene before, you know. It’s a lot like your father’s, right before —”

Rohan’s resolve flared, a spark of fire in his veins. He clenched his teeth and strained his muscles, fighting to rise again from the blood-soaked floor. But the pain was too much, a relentless tide that swept him under. He collapsed again, a ragged breath escaping his lips. Murtagh’s laughter rang in his ears, cruel and mocking.

With a wicked smile, Murtagh lifted his hand and ran a finger along the bloodstain on Rohan’s chest, causing him to flinch. He then leisurely brought the bloodstained finger to his lips, savoring the taste.

“You know what’s funny, Rohan?” Murtagh taunted. “You’re not worth killing. You’re not a threat, not a challenge, not even an annoyance. You’re just a toy, a plaything, a source of amusement. And I’m far from finished with you. I intend to make you suffer, to wring your cries for mercy from your wretched throat. I’ll laugh as I watch you burn.”

With a malevolent grin, he added, “And then, I’ll turn my attention to your precious friends.”

As Ororfin moved to assist Rohan, an invisible barrier halted his progress. To the astonishment of Ororfin, Elegil, and Helius, the magic emanated from Rohan himself.

Rohan bared his teeth and managed to say, “Go to hell.”

Murtagh’s cruel laughter filled the air once more.

But Rohan was far from defeated. He would fight until his last breath, until his last drop of blood.

Despite the searing pain that consumed him, Rohan gathered his last reserves of strength. He felt his muscles tear as he stood up, but he ignored the agony. He grunted, his breaths coming in short and rapid bursts. He reached for the darkness he wielded, and like a specter of vengeance, he morphed into a shadowy form—a wraith forged from darkness and fury. He saw Murtagh’s eyes widen in shock and fear. Rohan smiled grimly and launched himself at him. He attacked him from every direction, with speed and ferocity that Murtagh could not match. He made him pay for every wound, every word, every insult.

With unparalleled speed, Rohan became a relentless phantom that assaulted Murtagh from all angles. His attacks were swift and ruthless, a storm of fury that left Murtagh staggering.

The battle carried them onto a spacious balcony, where the final showdown between the two took place.

Rohan’s wrath and vengeance drove every movement as he battered Murtagh relentlessly. The High Lord of Cithria fell to his knees, gravely injured, his cruelty no longer enough to shield him from Rohan’s relentless rage.

Murtagh had expected him to be broken and helpless, not defiant and powerful. He had underestimated his opponent and cursed himself for being overconfident.

Here, under the silver glow of the moon and the glittering stars, Rohan towered over Murtagh. He was panting heavily, his breaths coming out in ragged gasps. But he was victorious.

 

***

The young High Lord staggered to the balcony’s railing, leaning on it for support. Blood stained his armor, and sweat dripped from his forehead, the pain from his wounds carving deep lines on his handsome face.

He met Murtagh’s eyes with a scornful glare, a wicked smile tugging at his lips. “Is that all you’ve got?” he taunted, his voice dripping with sarcasm. “I was hoping for a bit more drama and challenge.”

Ororfin, Elegil, Helius, and Beltharion rushed to his side, their worry evident as they took in Rohan’s battered form.

With a groan, Rohan reached for his sword in his back, drawing it from its sheath with a soft hiss. It had been a grueling battle, and he had drained the last of his magic.

Murtagh, though visibly in pain and bleeding, managed a twisted grin. “This is not the end, Rohan,” he spat through clenched teeth, his hatred burning bright. “I will have my revenge,” he growled. “Sooner or later, you will pay for this.” Murtagh added with a menacing tone, “And so will everyone else who was involved in my father’s death. I swear it on my life.”

Rohan’s expression hardened as he faced Murtagh, his tone turning icy and ominous. “You and what army?” he snapped back, his eyes flashing with determination. “I’ll wipe Cithria off the map, along with everyone in your Court.”

Murtagh let out a bitter laugh before disappearing into the night, leaving behind only a trace of his evil laughter.

***

Bathed in the ethereal glow of the moonlight, Rohan stood on the balcony, his form visibly drained and the burden of his injuries weighing upon him.

The moon’s gentle touch revealed the carnage in its pale glow. The grand hall, visible from the balcony, was a grisly scene. The corpses of the fallen still lay there, their blood tainting the opulent floor, the smell of iron mingling with the cold night air.

Rohan’s gaze lingered on the devastation, and for a moment, he was captivated by the play of light and shadow, the moon’s gentle embrace contrasting with the wreckage it revealed.

Ororfin, his loyal friend, moved towards him with the grace of a shadow, concern etched upon his features. “Are you alright?” Ororfin inquired, genuine worry in his voice.

“I’m fine,” Rohan said, his voice tinged with confidence. “These wounds will heal and fade once my magic returns.”

Elegil couldn’t help but voice the question that lingered in the air. “You really intend to annihilate everyone in Cithria?”

Rohan’s expression darkened as he nodded. His words were laced with an eerie seriousness. “Yes. I’m going to kill them all.”

Beltharion, wise and thoughtful, spoke up. “The people in Cithria are innocent. They had no choice in this,” he argued.

But Rohan cut him off, gesturing towards the bodies inside the grand hall. “They didn’t seem to mind killing the innocent,” he snapped. “I’m going to do the same.”

Observing Rohan thoughtfully, Beltarion said, “You still have much to learn about ruling a Court, boy.”

With a hint of sarcasm, Rohan replied, “Don’t call me ‘boy.’ ”

Turning to Ororfin, Rohan requested, “Go back to the camp and inform Galebor to prepare our army. We’re going to Cithria.” Ororfin vanished, his shadows enveloping him as he teleported away.

Rohan’s expression tightened, a flicker of pain crossing his features as if he didn’t want to reveal the extent of his suffering.

He then addressed the High Lords, Elegil and Helius, with determination. “Tell the other High Lords that the traitor is dead, and those who wish to join in destroying the Court of Cithria should come to the Autumn Palace.”

Elegil took a deep breath, clearly reluctant, but resolute. “I’ll fight by your side.”

Helius echoed Elegil’s commitment.

Beltharion mentioned that he needed to make his way to Mistport, a coastal city in the southwest, as he had some pressing matters to attend to there. Rohan simply nodded in response, acknowledging that their paths would temporarily diverge. “We’ll leave once when I’m fully recovered.”

***

In a few days, Murtagh’s realm would be devoured by flames; he and those who survived would flee to the island of Eregserin. There, he would lurk for years, brimming with hatred and bitterness, as he rebuilt his kingdom from the ashes. In the heart of Eregserin, he would raise a towering fortress in the lands now known as Morodoim. And within that imposing citadel, he would contemplate his rage—plotting schemes for a vengeance that burned fiercer than any fire.