― dust remaining

+| Chapter 11

// violence, blood, depictions of fighting and injury.
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George had listened to Dream when he said they would come across an active battlefield within the next day.

It would appear otherwise, however, as his gasp of shock escaped him.

His heart had hammered uncomfortably the entire ride, and anxiety pooled in his chest and thrashed wildly, ripping at every part of him it could get its hands on. His stomach filled with dread, accompanied by the nauseous rolling that turned restlessly.

Now he stood above the war zone, looking down the crest of the hill, at soldiers that dotted the plains and fire billowing into clouds of black smoke.

He had never felt so blatantly terrified.

Dream had instructed to leave the horses a few paces away, tied to a tree and sharing the same enthusiasm George felt- absolutely none.

Now, the knight looked in his element as he skillfully scanned the battleground, muttering numbers or battle plans under his breath. Which one of those exactly George had no clue.

He spotted the armor of his people's army, and they weren't horribly outnumbered but enough so that the battle was as good as lost.

"This wasn't supposed to be a battle," Dream gestured to the gathered fighting. "Their army ambushed ours barely outside here and the king took it as a personal attack. He should have just waited, because now more soldiers are out of commission than was needed." His lips twisted in scorn.

George didn't know what to do with this information, so he nodded blankly.

"What that means," the blond continued upon George's confusion, "is that the knights down there are weak. Barely a hundred if I was to reckon a guess. They have backup coming from the south, in about a day. Focus on the tired ones, and send them running, and that backup force will never arrive if it's a losing battle. Collieur's king is far more strategic than your father, no offense."

When George returned his gaze to the swinging and clashing of swords, he saw what he meant. A few soldiers were huddled in the back, clearly tired and unable to continue on. The ones that were still fighting were slow and sluggish, but not as wounded as their opponents, and so they barely won each spar they entered.

He scraped over the wounds on his army's side, eyes feasting on often fatal wounds and the occasional limb completely missing.

Shivers passed by his spine.

He sensed Dream's words before he said them, and held up a hand. "No- no, I'm fine. I can do this, right?"

Dream paused, shrugging. "I hope so." His words held quite a bit less conviction than they needed.

"Very motivating," George scoffed. "I appreciate it."

"My specialty," Dream hummed. He rolled his shoulders back, and straightened to his feet, checking his sword for imperfections and his armor for open gaps.

Due to the fact they had no where to store it, both of them opted to only bring thin leather armor with a few plates of iron that shielded the more vulnerable parts.

George stood up as well, swaying on his feet. They were tired, he reminded himself, so they wouldn't be that hard to take out.

Aim to disarm, he repeated in a chant as Dream led the way down the precarious slope.

His weapon felt extremely heavy in his hands, weighing every bit of his body down and the armor didn't help. It wasn't just a training session.

Maybe he was so worried because he knew he wouldn't escape without a scratch.