The fleet had broken in the sky. Fire still rained in streaks, burning trails across the night like the heavens themselves were bleeding. Of the thousands who had marched under the banner of the White Tree, one soldier remained. His name was Strat.
Smoke curled over the blackened ruin of the outpost. The clang of heavy boots echoed through the broken timbers. Uruks—broad-shouldered, snarling, their jagged blades dripping with the blood of his brothers—came hunting. There were only seven of them, but to a lone man, they might as well have been an army.
Strat tightened his grip on his battered spear. His shield was cracked, his armor dented and torn, yet he stood upright, boots digging into the ash-covered ground. His breathing was ragged, but his eyes burned with something the uruks could not understand: refusal.
The first uruk came howling, cleaver raised. Strat sidestepped and drove the spear clean through its throat. Hot black blood sprayed his face. He wrenched the weapon free just as two more rushed him. The shield shattered completely beneath their strikes, but Strat shoved the jagged wood into one’s face and split its skull with his sword.
The other slammed into him, sending them both into the mud. Its blade slashed across Strat’s side, tearing flesh. Pain roared through him, but with a guttural cry he jammed his dagger under its jaw until it stopped thrashing.
Four remained. They circled. Strat staggered to his feet, chest heaving, sword slick with gore. His knees trembled, yet he raised his weapon once more. He knew this was his end, but not theirs.
The uruks lunged together. Strat bellowed a final war cry that cut through the night, and for one fleeting moment, he was more than a soldier—he was a storm. His blade arced wide, carving two down before the third’s axe buried itself in his chest.
Still, he did not fall immediately. He locked eyes with the last uruk, blood bubbling from his lips, and with a surge born of nothing but fury, he drove his sword through its heart.
Silence.
Strat collapsed among the bodies of his enemies, his breath shallow, eyes fixed on the stars above the burning sky. A soldier of the fleet, fallen, yet not forgotten—because in the end, he had stood alone, and he had not yielded.
