Nylian Erkas

The battlefield lay in ruin beneath a sky smeared with the last embers of daylight. The scent of iron and scorched earth clung to the air, thick and suffocating, as crows circled above, waiting. Nylian Erkas moved through the wreckage like a specter, his iridescent wings catching the dying light in ghostly hues of silver and violet. The wind stirred the tattered banners of the Spring Court, their deep purple silk stained with soot and blood, yet still they flew defiant, unbroken.

His knights moved in silence behind him, their usual lilt of song and jest absent in the wake of carnage. The clash of steel and the cries of war had faded to a terrible quiet, broken only by the occasional moan of the dying and the whisper of wind through fallen banners. Nylian’s gaze swept over the field, his indigo eyes hard as cut stone. He had led them to victory, but at what cost? The Unseelie had been driven back, yet they would return. They always did.

Then, amid the ruin, he saw it.

A small cluster of irises stood untouched by the battle’s fury, their violet petals swaying gently in the evening breeze. Nylian stilled. In all the destruction, the trampled earth and shattered blades, this fragile bloom had endured. A symbol of the very thing he clung to. Hope.

A slow breath left his lips, the tension in his shoulders easing, if only slightly.

"Commander?" A voice pulled him from his thoughts. Sir Elyndor, his second, stepped forward, his silver helm tucked beneath one arm. His face, streaked with dirt and blood, was unreadable, but the exhaustion in his stance was clear. "The men are gathered. Your orders?"

Nylian lingered for a moment longer, his gaze tracing the delicate curve of the flowers. Hope. That this war would end. That he would not die with a sword in his hand, fighting for a peace that never came. That, one day, love might find him, if he lived long enough to accept it.

He exhaled and straightened, turning back to his knights. Their armor, dulled by battle, still bore the engraved emblems of Spring, vines curling around golden suns, symbols of renewal and rebirth. And yet, all he saw was weariness in their faces.

"Regroup the wounded," he ordered, his voice steady despite the weight in his chest. "Burn our dead. Leave nothing for the crows." A pause. "We return to the Court."

There was a moment of stillness, then the knights moved. Quiet murmurs passed between them as they carried out their commander’s will. Nylian took one last look at the irises before turning away. The war was not yet over. But hope still remained. One day, I hope to see all these sacrifices proven to be worth it all...