Balrog grunted as the bone spur grazed his dagger, forcing his strike off course. The impact stung, but he gritted his teeth and twisted with the momentum, narrowly avoiding Citadel’s snapping jaws at his side. His brother’s words cut deeper than any blow. Slave. Judgement. The anger in Citadel’s voice was palpable, but Balrog could feel the pain underneath it.
“I would’ve fought,” Balrog growled, his voice steady but raw, “but not to leave, and not with physical strength. I would have fought for you. For us. For my right to be a part of this family with a voice of reason.” He surged forward, feinting low before sweeping the dagger up in a fluid arc. The move ended with the obsidian blade poised at Citadel’s throat, just close enough for the cool edge to press lightly against his fur.
For a moment, Balrog held his position, his breathing heavy, eyes locked with Citadel’s. Then, slowly, he let the dagger drop to the ground with a dull thud. “I would never want to see you a slave,” he said, stepping back and offering his brother space. His voice softened, though his golden form still radiated tension. “You’re my brother, Citadel. But she- she is our mother. How could you harm her?”
He looked away, as if the barren battlefield held the answer. “If you think freedom is out here, then I hope you find it.” His gaze returned to Citadel, searching for a flicker of the bond they once shared. "And I hope that you do not find anything worse."
"Balrog"
