Harry Potter

The muddled haze of battle clung to the area like a leech. The now-familiar sound of clashing swords was relentless, and Harry could barely make out his friends in the sieges, much less know if they were alright. The only indication he had of their presence was the continued flashes of light, sending streaks of red and green through the sky.

Harry caught yet another glimpse of Aristotle, the traitor. He had now joined the fight, and his expertise in the skill was increasingly evident.

With a rush of fury, Harry fought his way towards him, repelling slashes with quick wand movements. Meanwhile, it was as if Aristotle mirrored his movements, but instead of defending himself, he struck down soldier after Primordian soldier.

Suddenly, he was stopped, as if he'd met someone worth his strength. Harry couldn't get a glimpse of the other, but as he struggled towards the two, he could hear their swords clashing loudly and viciously above the din. With one last shout of bombarda, which dispelled those around him, Harry finally caught a glimpse of who had matched Aristotle.

It had been Orion, who fought with determination but a pain in his eyes. The brothers had so obviously been close, or at least, now it came to realize that the affection was only one sided.

However, as Orion's eyes flashed towards Harry for a moment, it was his moment of weakness. Aristotle was not one to throw away an opportunity.

With a grunt of pain, Aristotle's sword embedded itself in Orion's chest, staining the surrounding fabric a dark crimson.

A look a shock seized his face for a moment before he slumped to the ground.

Aristotle had stood with his back to Harry throughout, but now he turned, as if to investigate what had distracted Orion.

Upon noticing Harry, he began to move to attack again, moving forward quickly. Harry felt as if he was frozen in horror.

Moments before the sword would have struck, a figure rushed out from the crowds. It was slightly shorter than Harry, but hurried in from of him, as if to block an attack, but the figure's sword was at a blunt angle, unable to strike. With a sickening cry of pain, the figure stopped, and a surprised look on Aristotle's face was almost immediately replaced by a mad glee.

Without uttering a word, he seemed to say oops, my hand slipped.

With a sickening thump, the limp body of Ezereal fell to the ground, lifeless and defeated.