🖤 𝐇𝐈𝐒 𝐁𝐋𝐄𝐄𝐃𝐈𝐍𝐆 𝐑𝐎𝐒𝐄 🖤

The battlefield reeked of blood, smoke, and death. A cold wind dragged whispers through the ruins, carrying the dying groans of warriors who would never rise again. The stars above were veiled by crimson clouds, the moon drowning behind a shroud of sorrow.

He stood among the fallen—his sword dripping blackened blood, his breath ragged, his body marked by countless wounds—but his eyes… his eyes searched only for her.

And then he found her.

Lying amidst the rubble, her white gown soaked in scarlet, her chest rising in fragile, trembling gasps. Her dark hair, once a crown of fire beneath the moonlight, was tangled with earth and ash.

He fell to his knees beside her, his hands trembling as they cupped her cold face.

“Stay with me,” he whispered, his voice breaking against the silence that hung heavy around them. “Please… don’t leave me, not now. Not when we’ve won.”

Her lips curved faintly—not a smile, but the shadow of one. Her hand, fragile and trembling, reached for his cheek, leaving streaks of crimson on his skin.

“You… fought for the night,” she breathed, her voice no louder than the wind. “But the night… was never ours.”

He shook his head violently, holding her closer as if his strength could anchor her soul. “No, no, you promised me the dawn—don’t you dare break that promise now.”

Her eyes softened, filled with a depth of sorrow he had never seen. And then, slowly, they began to dim, like fading embers in a dying fire.

He felt her last breath slip past her lips, felt the weight of eternity collapse inside his chest.

The battle was won.

But he had lost.

He bent over her still body, his forehead resting against hers, his tears mingling with the blood on her skin. In the distance, silence spread like a shadow, swallowing even the whispers of the dead.

And then… the sound of footsteps.

A figure emerged from the smoke, draped in black, his boots crushing the broken earth beneath him. His silver hair caught the dim moonlight, and in his hand was a sword unlike any forged by men—obsidian and hunger twisted into steel.

The warrior turned, his gaze hollow, his voice raw. “It’s over,” he rasped. “The night is ours.”

The man stopped a few paces away, his face unreadable beneath the hood’s shadow. When he spoke, his voice was deep, ancient, carrying the weight of prophecies long forgotten.

“No,” he said coldly.

“The long night… has only begun.”

Before the warrior could rise, before his grief could turn into fury, the man stepped forward and plunged the blade straight through his heart.

The last sound the warrior heard was the sharp hiss of steel tearing through flesh, and the last sight he saw was the obsidian blade glowing faintly with his blood.

Somewhere in the dark, an ancient evil stirred.

And the night… was far from over.