The Whisper of Time

The clang of steel on steel filled the battlefield, a storm of death and desperation. The knight, battered and bloodied, swung his sword with all the strength he could muster. Around him lay the fallen—friends and foes alike, their faces frozen in anguish.

His breath came in ragged gasps as another enemy charged at him. He parried, barely managing to stay upright. His vision blurred with exhaustion, and the weight of his armor felt like a prison dragging him down.

Then it happened.

A shadow loomed behind him. He spun, too slow. The enemy's blade arced toward him, gleaming with fatal purpose. Time seemed to stretch into eternity as the knight braced for the end.

But the blow never came.

Instead, the attacker froze, a look of shock on his face. A streak of light, fast as a falling star, pierced through him. He crumpled to the ground, lifeless.

The knight stumbled back, his heart hammering. Before him stood a figure unlike any he had seen—a man or woman, it was hard to tell, clad in strange, sleek garments that shimmered like the surface of a moonlit lake. A weapon, unlike any sword, rested in their hand, still humming faintly.

The figure turned to him, their expression calm and knowing. A gloved finger rose to their lips—a silent command to stay quiet.

“Ssh,” they whispered, their voice soft yet commanding.

Before the knight could utter a word, the figure pressed something on their wrist. A flash of light enveloped them, and they vanished as if swallowed by the air itself.

The knight stood there, his sword trembling in his grip. Around him, the battle raged on, oblivious to the miracle he had just witnessed.

He glanced at the lifeless body of his assailant, then to the empty space where the figure had stood. A mix of gratitude and confusion swirled within him.

Who had they been? An angel? A sorcerer? Or something beyond his comprehension?

The knight gripped his sword tighter and raised it high. He had been given another chance, and he would not waste it.

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