The dead god was long gone, leaving only an echo behind him. But there was a god that would protect Roman’s men today, or so did the czar hope. It was impossible to win this battle with soldiers alone. The imperial forces outnumbered them greatly, and even if the cavalry shocked them, they still had a fighting chance.

They were close enough to see the eyes of the soldiers ready to meet the charge, their trembling legs knowing they had to fight off a mounted foe charging at them. The imperials saw the cavalry desperately shuffling to get into formation and meet them. A handful of them lifted spears toward the horses, hoping their brothers would do the same. Roman gripped the hilt of his sword tight, pressed his legs to his steed, and prepared to crash into them.

Then it all went white.

The field disappeared, the soldiers were gone, and the sound of charging horses faded away. Silence. A moment’s calm in the chaos. He was swimming in an infinite whiteness. Roman looked down at his hands, but they were gone. He still felt the reins in them, the weight of the armor on his shoulders, but they weren’t there.

And just as he was loosening his grips on the reins to make sure he still lived, the silence was broken by screams. The drumming of hooves returned, the white blanket in front of his eyes fell, and he saw imperial soldiers burning and screaming, their ranks shattered in complete disarray.

The sky rumbled fiercely, and another lightning struck deeper into the imperial ranks. It found the imperial soldiers’ blades, and it crawled through their ranks like cracks in a wall. It jumped from sword to mail, from shield to speartip, trapping them in a cobweb of death. The touch of Perun’s lightning sent them screaming and thrashing on the ground.

Roman’s cavalry rammed into them.

Horses trampled the outer lines, sending broken men flying left and right. The riders’ blades bit into imperial bodies, unchallenged. Those spared by the lightning walked through the battlefield, still blind and shocked. Roman’s riders picked them off, already getting winded from the constant hacking.

The cavalry left a carpet of armor behind it, and the czar’s main forces began to push. Imperial commanders barked orders, desperate to reform the lines, but their men crawled as lightning burned them from the inside. They wandered the battlefield like man men, ground down by the riders.

“In the name of the czar!” - men roared as they mowed down the imperials.

Horns blew in the distance, and Roman saw the imperial third line entering the fight to hold the onslaught at the flank. Now everything was in the hands of the mortals, Roman thought as the sky got clearer. But how could any army defeat soldiers dying with their czar’s name on their lips? A flag bearer was pierced with a spear, but the man next to him picked the banner from his hands. Each time the flag leaned to the side, ready to fall, another hand gripped it and held it up against the imperial blades.

“In the name of the czar!” - soldiers yelled with their last breaths.

The czar’s banner passed from hand to hand like an heirloom until Roman himself picked it up from a soldier with an arrow shaft in his neck. He held the torn, bloody flag high in one hand, his steel in the other. Leading the fight on top of his mount, hoping that a stray arrow won’t put a stop to his ambitions.