The Final Confrontation

From the back of his massive warhorse, Prince Ammon looked like a god. His intricate scale armor showed not a scratch, and his long cape of embroidered feathers glowed in the waning sunlight. Behind him, his loyal soldiers carried aloft his owl banner. The symbol of honor. The symbol of justice.

“It is not too late,” Ammon called out to his foe, “Submit yourself for judgment and this conflict can be prevented.”

The men in the enemy’s ranks laughed bitterly at his words, but their leader said nothing. He rode no horse, nor bore any banner. His armor was dark, spare, practical. He held a javelin in one hand, and on his head he already wore his helm of battle: a wolf’s head, braying in defiance.

“Stop this madness, Tytus,” Ammon shouted. One last desperate plea. “I am sent to make you answer for your crimes, one way or another.”

Prince Tytus shifted, crouched low in readiness. His men tensed.

“Yes, my brother,” the Wolf Prince hissed, “And answer I shall.”

A sudden shout, and the battle was joined.

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