Aemon estava quase no seu limite. Seu corpo, antes ágil, agora arrastado sob o peso de sua própria dor. O sangue fervente correndo por suas veias, alimentado pela magia de Cerys, come?ou a murchar. O fogo interior queimava seus músculos, corroendo sua resistência. Ele mal conseguia manter os olhos abertos, cada respira??o uma luta contra a exaust?o.

  With each strike, the heat inside him intensified, his arteries pulsing as if they were about to burst. The 5 minutes were running out.

  His sword cut through the air once more with a scream of fury, but something inside him, a newfound weakness, began to manifest. He felt his muscles contracting, his vision blurring, his bones slowly cracking under the pressure of his own body. The fire that had driven him was now becoming a poison, his senses collapsing under the weight of the pain.

  Dravenmoor, with his predator eyes, noticed the breach. He saw the prince waver, saw the moment when the heat destroyed his strength, when Aemon's muscles did not react with the necessary speed. Dravenmoor moved like a storm, a quick and brutal blade.

  The blow was immense.

  With an overwhelming force, Dravenmoor's sword met Aemon's defense, the crushing impact sending the prince flying back like a leaf torn away by a merciless wind. The sensation was as if the very ground beneath him was shattering. The sound of his flesh being hit was muffled by the roar of his own bones breaking. The emotion in his mind was a mix of fury and fear, but his strength was fading, and he could no longer hold his position.

  Aemon fell.

  His muscles were burning, the joints unable to support his weight. The ground felt too heavy, his eyes clouded with pain. The body that once seemed invincible was now being corroded by time, heat, and exhaustion.

  Aemon's sword slipped from his hand and fell with a dull thud, his body stretching out, breathing hard and ragged. The 5 minutes had passed.

  Cerys's magic dissipated, like a final breath, and Aemon, finally, felt the weight of reality return to him. The hot blood inside his body no longer burned as before. He was exhausted, weakened, and now human frailty reached him.

  Dravenmoor looked at him with a cruel smile. The prince was defeated, lying on the ground, unable to rise. The battle had been arduous, but the great warrior knew that the war was not won only by strength, but by endurance. And Aemon, now, had nothing more to offer.

  Silence took over the battlefield.

  The soldiers of Volcrist stood in shock, their eyes fixed on Aemon’s fallen figure. They had witnessed the prince fight with everything he had, with an unusual ferocity, and yet, the sound of steel hitting the ground was the only testament to his failure. The wind, which once carried the weight of a titanic battle, now brought only a heavy, suffocating silence.

  Lilith was paralyzed. Her body trembled, and disbelief consumed her. Her eyes were fixed on the prince—the man she had followed there with a clear purpose—and Cerys, the one she believed could be the key to surpassing Dravenmoor. She had seen his strength, the fury in his eyes, the blazing magic that had fueled him. She had believed. They all had believed.

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  Mas agora, diante de seus olhos, Aemon jazia caído, seu corpo quebrado e sem vida, incapaz de responder ao chamado de seu próprio poder. Nem mesmo a magia de Cerys, que o havia restaurado por alguns minutos, fora o suficiente. Ela sentiu a frustra??o queimando dentro dela como veneno. Como? Como isso p?de ter acontecido? Ela olhou para os soldados, tentando encontrar uma centelha de esperan?a, mas o desespero estava escrito em todos os seus rostos.

  N?o poderia ser.

  Dravenmoor, o monstro, o guerreiro imbatível, agora estava de pé com sua espada manchada de sangue, observando sua vitória com um olhar satisfeito e arrogante. O gigante que havia derrubado o príncipe parecia intocado pela batalha, sua presen?a ainda imponente e amea?adora. A energia de Aemon havia se dissipado, a magia que antes fluía como um rio indomável agora estava reduzida a um fio d'água, e o calor que havia queimado em suas veias parecia ter sido extinto com o impacto final.

  O sonho de Volcrist, o futuro que Cerys e os soldados ansiavam, parecia estar desaparecendo diante dos olhos de todos.

  Lilith sentiu uma onda de desamparo.

  — Levante-se, príncipe! Você n?o pode morrer agora, você tem que jurar ser minha espada ainda!

  Mas sua voz parecia pequena, perdida no campo de batalha onde a morte pairava como um espectro. Ela se virou para os soldados, sua express?o marcada pela frustra??o.

  — N?o desista. A batalha n?o acabou! N?o podemos perder aqui!

  Ela tentou comandá-los, mas, no fundo, sabia que suas palavras estavam escapando, sem for?a para inspirar os homens que tinham dado tudo de si.

  Os soldados come?aram a recuar — n?o por covardia, mas pela sensa??o avassaladora de impotência que tomou conta de cada um deles. A derrota parecia certa. Dravenmoor havia vencido, e com ele, a esperan?a de uma nova era para Volcrist.

  Mas dentro de Lilith, um fogo ainda queimava, por menor que fosse.

  Ela olhou para o corpo de Aemon, seus olhos cheios de dor e raiva.

  — N?o vou deixar que acabe assim, ela murmurou para si mesma.

  N?o naquele momento. N?o agora. Mesmo que tivesse que fazer o impossível, ela sabia que ainda havia mais a ser feito. A batalha ainda n?o havia sido decidida definitivamente, e ela n?o aceitaria que terminasse em fracasso.