Fiction! A Million Shines of Blood that Haunts me. (I)

The battlefield shimmered beneath the unforgiving desert sun. Sand, once pristine, was now a macabre tapestry woven with crimson threads. Captain Anya knelt amidst the carnage, the metallic tang of blood heavy in the air. A million glints of reflected sunlight danced on spilled blood, a horrifying spectacle that promised to haunt her forever.

Suddenly, a groan pierced the silence. Her hand instinctively reached for the hilt of her sword, only to find it slick with dried blood. But this groan held a different tone, a plea for help rather than a death rattle. Anya followed the sound, her heart thudding a chaotic rhythm against her ribs.

There, half-buried under a fallen shield, lay a young enemy soldier, his crimson uniform stark against the ochre sand. His eyes, the color of a stormy sky, flickered open. Fear contorted his features, but then he saw Anya. Fear morphed into surprise, surprise into a flicker of defiance.
"You," he rasped, his voice a mere thread. "The Demon of the North."

Anya winced at the title. It was a moniker whispered by her enemies, a chilling reminder of the battles she'd fought, the lives she'd taken. But something in this soldier's vulnerability stayed her executioner's hand.
"You're injured," she stated, her voice hoarse.
He coughed, a wet, bloody sound. "Finish it."
Anya hesitated. "Who are you?"
"Kael," he whispered, his eyelids drooping shut.

The sun dipped towards the horizon, casting long shadows across the battlefield. A cold desert wind whipped past, whipping Anya's hair and tugging at her resolve. She couldn't leave him to die. With a sigh, she tore a strip from her cloak and clumsily bound his wound.
Night descended, a cloak of inky blue dotted with a million diamond stars. Anya sat beside Kael, keeping watch. He stirred, awareness slowly returning to his eyes. He met her gaze with a mixture of confusion and gratitude.
"Why?" he rasped.
"You're young," Anya said, her voice quieter than she intended. "There's more to life than this war."
He chuckled, a dry, humorless sound. "You, who called me soldier mere hours ago, now lecture me on life?"
Anya flushed. "There's no honor in killing the wounded."
A long silence stretched between them. Kael closed his eyes, his breathing shallow.
"Tell me about the North," he whispered.
Anya was startled. "The North is cold, unforgiving."
"Is that all?" he persisted.

She hesitated, then spoke of rolling green hills that turned gold in autumn, of clear lakes that mirrored the sky. She spoke of the warmth of a crackling fire in winter, of laughter shared with family over steaming mugs of hot cocoa.

Days turned into weeks. Anya treated Kael's wounds, the gruesome task punctuated by stolen moments of conversation. He spoke of his home, a bustling port city by the sea, filled with music and the scent of spices. Anya told him of her small village, nestled at the foot of snow-capped mountains.

They were enemies, bound by the thread of shared humanity on a stage painted red with war. Yet, a fragile connection bloomed between them, fueled by stolen glances and whispered stories.

One evening, as the first stars pricked the darkening sky, Kael reached for Anya's hand. She flinched, then surprised herself by not pulling away.
"There's no future for us," he said, his voice low and sad. "You have a home to return to, a life to lead."
"And you?" she countered, her voice barely a whisper.
He sighed. "My side lost. If they find me alive, they'll execute me."

Anya swallowed, a lump forming in her throat. She knew he spoke the truth. Yet, the thought of letting him go was unbearable.
Over the next few days, a desperate plan formed in Anya's mind. It was a risky one, bordering on impossible, but the alternative – letting Kael die – was unthinkable.

The night before the planned escape, Anya felt a wave of fear wash over her. She found Kael awake, staring up at the star-dusted sky.
"What's wrong?" he asked, his voice laced with concern.

She poured out her fears, the guilt of betraying her people, the uncertainty of their future. He listened patiently, then turned towards her, his eyes reflecting the starlight.
"We can't choose the circumstances we're born into," he said softly. "But we can choose how we face them."
His words held a quiet strength, a flicker of defiance that mirrored his earlier defiance on the