The snow fell in silent, swirling flurries, blanketing the battlefield in a cold, unfeeling shroud. Saerus le Désireux stood amidst the carnage, his breath steaming in ragged bursts, his once-pristine armor now battered and soaked with blood—belonging to himself and those he'd slain. The battle was over. Victory was his. Yet, it felt hollow against the relentless gnaw of pain tearing through his side.
Every step away from the battlefield was a struggle. The crimson streak he left behind marred the pure white. His vision blurred, his strength waned, but his resolve remained firm. Saerus had never feared death, and he would not start now. If this was the end, he would meet it as he had always sworn: with honor.
Reaching a towering tree whose branches stretched toward the gray heavens, he fell against its trunk, sinking to the ground. The bark was cold against his back, the snow even colder. With trembling hands, he removed his helmet, letting it fall beside him with a dull thud. He looked down at the blood pooling around him, staining the snow, and felt an odd sense of peace. The pain dulled, replaced by an almost dreamlike haze.
His vision dimmed, the world seeming to soften around him. Snowflakes fell, catching the light of a hidden sun, and he saw a figure emerge, veiled in the misty shimmer of his failing sight. An angel, he thought, come to carry him to his final rest. He smiled faintly, his head tilting back as the world fell away.
Saerus stirred to warmth, a sharp contrast to the biting cold. His eyelids fluttered open, his armor and tunic gone, replaced by bandages snugly wrapped around his abdomen. Sweat glistened on his skin, the air thick with the scent of herbs.
Blinking against the dim light, he turned his head. There they were—the angel. They leaned over him, pressing a cold, damp cloth to his fevered skin. Firelight cast a halo around them, their features blurred but otherworldly.
“…An… Angel?”
His voice was hoarse, barely a whisper. Fever clouded his mind, making everything surreal.