Ironblade watched the metal melt, turning to a silvery liquid and running into the ground.

A silver liquid. Just like what they fought over. Ironblade's eyes narrowed. He hated this war. He hated the Elemental Lords. He hated the Great Beings. He hated it all. None of it belonged. They had gotten along fine, then the Great Beings and their "wonders" showed up. The Elemental Lords also forgot their origin. They used to be one of the normal people, just another like everyone else. Now they were hungry for power and for land. It sickened Ironblade.

So he decided to desert.

The war won't ruin his life. He'll escape it, go to an area untouched by the ravages of war. He'll be able to forget the destruction, the loss of life, the unnecessary damage caused by greed.

No one was going to keep him from living. And he won't be called Ironblade, a name attributed to him because of his ice blade that had cut through so many enemy soldiers.

So many innocent men.

Ironblade clearly remembered a picture he had seen of some apparently glorious battle where a white warrior stood atop a pile of enemies with a tattered flag. It filled him with disgust. No one ever did that. There was no need. Ironblade hated things like that, monuments glorifying a moment which had no good in it at all.

Except he wasn't called Ironblade anymore. He was called Gelu.

Gelu left early that morning, while it was still dark, and made sure to leave no trace of himself behind. He stood atop a ridge and unfolded the map. Somewhere on this map was a place uninhabited, and if there wasn't, someplace beyond the map was. Somewhere, somehow, he was going to find peace.

He would ensure it.