The last warrior

The wind howled through the ruins of Aethelgard, carrying the scent of old blood and rusted iron. Kael sat by a small, flickering fire, his eyes fixed on the dark horizon. His blade, once a symbol of hope for his people, lay beside him, its edge chipped and scarred from a thousand battles. He was the last of the Iron-Blood warriors, a ghost in a world that had forgotten the meaning of honor. For ten years, Kael had lived in the silence of the mountains. He had traded his armor for rags and his glory for solitude. But tonight, the silence was broken. A soft footstep, unfamiliar and light, approached his camp from the thick mist. Without turning, Kael’s hand gripped the cold hilt of his sword. His voice was like grinding stone. "Go back where you came from," he growled. "There is nothing left here but shadows and the dead." The footsteps stopped. A young woman stepped into the light of the fire. She was covered in dirt, her clothes torn, but in her hands, she clutched a cloth-wrapped object that pulsed with a faint, golden light." The prophecy said I would find a protector here," she whispered, her voice trembling. "They are coming, Kael. The Black Sun is rising again." Kael stood up slowly, his tall frame casting a long shadow over the ruins. He looked at the golden relic in her hands and felt a cold shiver. The Great War he thought he had ended was far from over. "I am no protector," Kael said, drawing his broken blade. "I am just the man who buries the enemies. "The girl looked at him with desperate eyes. "Then pick up your shovel, Warrior. Because an army is right behind me.