The battle was far from a simple exchange of blows. This fight was more than just a clash between two warriors; it was a primal confrontation, a dance between two forces equal in power and determination. As blades cut through the air, the world around them seemed to disappear. There was no longer the weight of war, of intrigues, of responsibilities—only the fight remained. The sound of their strikes echoed deeply, reverberating across the battlefield, and everyone watching was merely a spectator to the spectacle unfolding before them.

  Thorneveil’s spy, from a distant vantage point, had stopped writing. His hands, once swift, were now paralyzed, his eyes fixed on the scene before him, unable to believe what he was witnessing. He was no longer observing just a battle between a prince and a war master. What he saw now was something far greater, something far more extraordinary than any report or mission. Aemon, the prince of Volcrist, was no longer just a man. He had transformed—somehow—into something beyond. And Dravenmoor… he was giving it his all, a genuine smile of pleasure on his lips, as if testing the limits of a worthy adversary, a rarity even for him.

  Every movement was an explosion of pure energy. Their bodies moved with the precision of supernatural creatures, their blades clashing with a thunderous impact that seemed to shake the earth. Dravenmoor, his expression filled with satisfaction, seemed to revel in the intensity of the battle. He had never faced an opponent like Aemon before. It wasn’t just about raw strength—it was something more. There was fire in Aemon, an untamed flame that reflected the soul of the dragon now residing within him.

  Aemon, in turn, felt every fiber of his being pushed to its limit. He no longer cared about victory or defeat. Each strike exchanged with Dravenmoor was a test, proof that he could surpass what he had ever believed possible. His eyes were locked onto Dravenmoor’s, but his mind had no space for anything else beyond a single thought: "This warrior is giving his all, so it is my duty to match him." The words echoed in his mind, driving him forward, pushing him to fight until his last breath.

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  Sweat ran down his face, but it wasn’t just the heat of his transformation or the battle. It was the heat of a spirit burning from within, refusing to surrender. His muscles ached, his flesh was exposed to fire, but he did not falter. Every movement seemed to bring him closer to the core of his own soul, where the dragon lurked, waiting to be unleashed.

  Dravenmoor, on the other hand, relished the fight. With every attack, every defense, he felt Aemon’s power—but also the thrill of facing someone who could match his skill. This was not just a battle of swords—it was a battle of souls, a test of endurance, of willpower. Aemon was surpassing everything he had ever seen, and that excited him. It was as if he was no longer fighting a prince—he was fighting Aemon’s very nature, the blood in his veins, his very destiny.

  The balance between them was perfect. Neither yielded, neither retreated. Both gave everything they had, answering every movement with renewed intensity. The battlefield became a stage for an epic spectacle, and every gaze was locked onto their duel. There were no more enemies, no more allegiances—only an arena where the true essence of these two warriors was laid bare.

  The spectators could no longer look away. Every clash of blades, every ragged breath, every calculated movement was part of a story being written before their eyes. Dravenmoor and Aemon had transcended mere rivalry—they were testing each other, shaping each other, consuming each other, and neither seemed willing to back down. The battle was far from decided, but both knew that only one would emerge victorious.

  And deep in their hearts, both understood: as long as the other fought with everything he had, it was their duty to match that intensity.

  And so, the battle raged on.