This is Iron Hearts' submission for Internationals 2024 hosted by SSD.
Hope you enjoyed!
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The Whisper of Blades
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Beneath the ever-shifting sky, the land of Springroll lay divided. Two tribes-one rooted in the crimson forests of the east, the other sworn to the sapphire rivers of the west-lived in relentless disdain for one another. The eastern tribe was a people of fire and ash, their movements sharp as sparks. The western tribe moved like water, silent and fluid, their steps as unpredictable as the currents. Neither spoke to the other, but their hatred ran deep, whispered through gestures and glares.
For years, tension brewed. Messengers from the east would return with shredded banners, while scouts from the west came back with shattered bows. No words, only actions-cold, calculated declarations of enmity.
The land itself seemed to tremble under the weight of their unspoken rivalry. Winds carried the scent of rain, mingled with the faint trace of steel, as both sides prepared for the inevitable.
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The Battle
The dawn of the fateful day rose quiet and heavy.
The eastern warriors emerged from the forest like shadows breaking free from the trees, their movements sharp, their formations precise. The western fighters came like the tide, soundless and smooth, their curved blades glinting in the pale light.
When they met on the open plains, it was as if nature held its breath. There were no battle cries, no shouts to rally courage-only the sound of the wind as it danced among them.
And when they clashed, it was poetry.
The eastern warriors moved like embers caught in a gale, striking with ferocity and retreating with precision. The western tribe flowed around them, spinning and turning like rivers carving through stone. Their swords met with a ring like distant thunder, their bodies weaving through each other like leaves caught in a storm.
To an observer, it was not a battle but a dance-a furious, beautiful storm of movement. The wind carried their silent fury, bending the grass and scattering petals from the plains around them.
Hours passed. The sun dipped low, staining the sky with streaks of blood-red and gold. Still, neither side could claim victory.
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The Turning Point
At the center of the maelstrom, two figures finally met: Misty' of the east, her braided hair bound with crimson threads, her twin blades a blur of steel; and Iris of the west, her pale armor shimmering like moonlight, her staff spinning with effortless grace.
They didn’t speak. They didn’t need to.
Their duel was fierce yet deliberate, each movement a question and answer. Sparks flew as steel met steel, their battle unfolding like the clash of opposites-fire and water, storm and calm.
But as the sun kissed the horizon, something shifted. Both warriors faltered, not from exhaustion, but from realization. Around them, their tribes lay strewn in silence-not in death but in fatigue, each side unable to continue the endless spiral of hatred.
Misty and Iris locked eyes. The wind paused, waiting.
With a single, deliberate gesture, Misty knelt and placed her blades into the earth. Iris mirrored her, planting her staff into the ground.
The gesture rippled through the battlefield. One by one, warriors lowered their weapons, their animosity crumbling under the weight of shared exhaustion.
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The Peace of Spring
In the days that followed, the commanders of east and west met at the heart of the battlefield. The land of Spring was beautiful, they saw, its rivers glimmering and its forests whispering with life. It was too precious to be marred by the scars of war.
Without words, they walked the land together, Misty pointing to the eastern forests and Iris tracing the bends of the western rivers. They reached an agreement as fluid and silent as the battle itself, their hands crafting borders in the soil.
The land of Spring was shared, its beauty no longer split but united. The wind returned, carrying not the scent of steel, but the fresh aroma of wildflowers and rain.
And though the two tribes remained distinct, their hatred melted into a quiet respect. Misty and Iris led them not as rivals, but as the keepers of a land now whole.
Spring thrived, its forests and rivers forever dancing together under the endless sky.