Borgov's POV This valley feels like hell.The clang of metal fills the air, steel crashing against steel. Wolves twist and claw, their dark forms silhouetted against the fiery sky, while rogues swarm over the ridge like ants from a disturbed hill.I swing my sword—the one with the worn leather grip, the blade I've carried for years—and a man goes down. My left hand grips the pistol, still warm from my last shot. Another blade hangs at my waist, waiting for action.Around me, Gracia's warriors stand firm, sturdy men with steady eyes. My own fighters are holding the left flank, but the line is wavering. Bodies are piling up. The mud is soaked in red.I'm forty-one now. I've witnessed battles and buried friends. But I've never seen hell like this.Then I see him.He’s on the outskirts of the chaos, sword raised, frozen mid-step. Even from a hundred yards away, through the smoke and turmoil, I recognize tho
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