Livora tapped her cheeks repeatedly, her skin stinging as she tried to wake herself from what felt like a vivid, terrifying dream. Roswell stood paralyzed, his wings hovering mid-beat in the air as he stared at the carnage.
"I thought the dragon would do the most damage," Roswell's inner thoughts spilled out, his voice cracking.
Even with Elina's volcanic display, it was the man in the uniform who had stolen the soul of the war.
"Yeah... but that man just made them lose the meaning of hope itself," Livora added, her voice a hollow whisper.
She realized now that the killing intent she had felt from Noa—that suffocating sea of blood—had been a promise, not an illusion. Seeing him smile as he tore through the ranks explained the wickedness she had sensed. It wasn't just a duty to him; it was amusement. He was an artist whose medium was the screams of the dying.
"Well, yeah! He is my brother after all!" Lina declared, her chin lifting with a pride that could rival the stars. She ignored the horror of the scene, seeing only the glory of her kin.
"I guess so." Elina muttered, looking genuinely annoyed.
Even though she had erased hundreds with a single spell, the conversation was already centering on Noa. She pouted, her amber eyes flicking toward the battlefield with a sulk that felt strangely out of place amidst the piles of bodies.
Seeing the dragon girl pout like a rejected kitten, Vionette reached out. She extended her left hand, placing her slender fingers beneath Elina's chin. With a firm yet gentle motion, she scratched the skin there, her eyes softening for the briefest of moments.
"You did great too, Elina," Vionette said, her smile steady and warm.
"What... are you doing?" Elina's voice hitched, a faint blush creeping onto her cheeks, but she didn't pull away. In fact, she leaned into the touch.
"I know you like it."
True to Vionette's words, Elina was soon smiling, her previous annoyance melting away like snow in the sun. She leaned into the scratches with the same vulnerability she showed during head pats, her draconic pride completely neutralized by Vionette's affection.
"But even if you solved the number issue," Roswell said, regaining his composure as he looked toward the rear of the Crimvane line. "That duke of yours still has his army running toward the healers. They're going to be slaughtered from behind—!"
His words died in his throat as he saw the horizon shift. Between the rear of the army and the healing tents, figures began to emerge from the shadows of the earth itself. These were not the broken soldiers of a failing front, but fresh, cold steel.
"Don't worry, Roswell. As Noa said, this is not a war, it's an annihilation."
***
A few hours prior,
The valley's edges were a tapestry of emerald and shadow, where the surrounding forest loomed like a wall of spears and the rocky hills stood as silent, stone witnesses. Behind those jagged ridges, the knights and mages of Therion were hunkered down in camps that felt more like temporary prisons than outposts of a noble house.
Inside the central tent, a structure that clung to a fading, tattered luxury amidst the damp earth, Duke Carvan sat heavily in his chair. He was clad in armor that felt more like a leaden weight than protection, his mind a turbulent sea of doubt. He watched a single candle flame flicker against the gloom, wondering if his house was being led to its grave.
A sudden frantic skidding of boots outside snapped his attention back as a knight burst through the flaps, kneeling with a desperate urgency.
"My lord, the royal envoy Lucien Blackmoor has arrived with the supply wagons... and some equipment," the knight reported, his voice high with a mixture of confusion and relief.
"Equipment?" Carvan rumbled, his voice like grinding stone as he lifted his massive frame from the chair.
He walked out into the misty afternoon, the heavy sound of his own footsteps echoing the rhythmic drumming of his heart.
He knew Vionette was a wolf in a doll's skin, having predicted Duke Gemsh's treachery with a chilling accuracy, but that knowledge didn't shield them from the reality of the coming slaughter. He was a veteran who understood that grit and loyalty were often poor defenses against the legendary Aurelyth-ore weapons that the enemy surely wielded.
…
The knights of Therion were assembled in a tight square formation, their shields interlocking like the scales of a serpent, while the mages gathered in a concentrated circle beside them. The sun caught the dull, pitted surfaces of their gear—low-level metal that had seen too many winters. In front of them, Carvan stood as a silent sentinel, his eyes narrowing as he watched the approach of Lucien Blackmoor.
The steady tuckt-tuckt of horse hooves echoed through the clearing, a rhythmic herald of the inevitable. Lucien closed in on Carvan, his posture relaxed and arrogant, swaying with the motion of his stallion. Behind him, a strange caravan of knights followed, riding heavy wooden carts that were draped in coarse, mud-stained rags, hiding whatever cargo lay beneath.
"Hello again, Duke Carvan," Lucien said as he reined in his horse, a sharp, arrogant smile playing on his lips that matched the predatory grace of his movements.
"As arrogant as ever, I see," Carvan replied, the corners of his mouth twitching into a reluctant smirk. "Is it time?" The tone of his voice dropped an octave, the weight of the coming slaughter pressing down on him.
He noted Lucien's attire—a sleek, dark uniform that defied every aesthetic of the old world. It was the uniform of a man who served a queen who had already won.
"Yes," Lucien nodded, his eyes flashing with a sudden, lethal fire. "But before we proceed to the slaughter—"
He raised both hands, his custom black gloves hitting each other with a sharp, resonant clap. It was the sound of a closing door. Immediately, the knights atop the carts leaped down. With a violent tug, they removed the rags, unveiling the secrets they had carried through the mountain passes.
The knights' eyes widened in unison, a collective gasp rippling through the ranks like wind through wheat. Even Carvan, a man who thought he had seen everything, felt his heart stutter.
The carts were overflowing with armor and weaponry—maces that gleamed with an inner light, swords with edges so fine they seemed to cut the air itself, and blades that sang with a low, metallic hum. The craftsmanship was beyond anything the duke had ever witnessed.
"What... what is all this?" Carvan asked, his voice barely a whisper as he reached out toward a breastplate that shimmered like pearl.
Lucien leaned forward from his horse, his shadow long and dark over the duke.
"Didn't they tell you to trust them? So, here we are." He turned toward the carts, extending both hands as if presenting a miracle. "All of this is mid Relic Grade equipment—a physical manifestation of that trust."
"Just trust me. I won't let a single one of my side die." Vionette's words rang through Carvan's mind with the clarity of a mountain spring. He realized then that they were never meant to be sacrifices; they were the hidden teeth of a leviathan. A fierce, genuine smile carved itself into his weathered face as he turned to his men.
"Okay then, people," he roared, turning toward his knights whose faces were pale with the fear of being rejected by such beauty. "As he said, go claim your destinies. Get those things on and get ready to win!" Carvan pointed his thumb at Lucien, but his mind was on the girl sitting on the hill.
These armors were the labor of Marnok, the legendary smith who had been hidden away in the bowels of Crimvane since the day Vionette had 'rescued' him. He had been forging this victory in secret for years, his hammer striking a rhythm that was now coming to its crescendo. This wasn't a last-minute miracle; it was a long-term execution of a master design.
***
Meanwhile, on the fringes of the present battlefield, the Caldris soldiers moved through the undergrowth like silent ghosts. They were the hidden dagger meant to pierce Crimvane's back, waiting for the signal to join their turncoat brothers within the reserve lines.
They were slightly breathless, their lungs burning from the pace they had maintained after the Crimvane main force had inexplicably accelerated to close the gap. But their confidence remained unshaken, bolstered by the heavy Aurelyth-ore armor that encased their bodies, making them feel like invincible juggernauts.
Then, without warning, the world turned the color of a fresh wound.
"What?"
"Why is the sky—?"
"HEY! Look over there!"
A knight pointed a trembling finger toward the center of the valley. There, a pillar of crimson flames erupted with the fury of an angry god, scorching the clouds and turning the air into a shimmering mirage of heat. Drops of cold sweat fell from the Caldris knights as they witnessed the sheer magnitude of the magical disaster.
"What is that? Does Crimvane have mages capable of such heresy?" a mage muttered to himself, his fingers fumbling with his staff.
He didn't want to imagine a single person wielding that much power; it was easier to believe in a hidden battery of mages, a conspiracy of fire.
"Whatever it is, it doesn't matter. They're occupied. We strike now!" the commander barked, trying to drown out his own instinct to run.
And so, they rushed forward, driven by the momentum of their own betrayal. But as they closed in, a second disaster manifested. A horizontal slash of violet energy, so vast it seemed to redefine the horizon, split the vanguard in two. The energy was so corrupt that the horses reared back, their animal instincts screaming that the man ahead was not part of the natural order.
"What the hell is happening?"
"Who is that?"
"No one informed us of a demon!"
A mage screamed as he saw Noa, a shadow in a uniform, breaching the Aurelyth lines with the rhythmic grace of a harvester. The more he killed, the more Acheron glowed with a sick, pulsating light. It didn't matter who stood before him; the blade wanted only the red.
"No way..."
The words died in the throats of the Caldris soldiers as they watched the demon breach their lines. Behind him, the knights of Crimvane followed with a renewed, fanatical vigor.
Without any other choice, and spurred on by the fear of what was behind them, the hidden soldiers rushed forward to join their positioned comrades at the rear. But as they reached the edge of the clearing, another group of soldiers erupted from the forest to their left.
"Who are they?"
"Are they reinforcements from Aurelyth? Did the King send help?"
***
At the rear of the Crimvane line, the traitorous soldiers had already received the signal from the distant hill where Duke Gemsh and King Kahen watched. They stepped forward, their faces twisted with a cruel anticipation as they targeted the healers—the heart of the army that was meant to be defenseless.
"Let's kill these idiots and end this farce," one traitor whispered.
"Heheh, they won't even see it com—"
SHRROOOM!
"KHAH!"
The air was suddenly displaced as a gargantuan shard of ice, as large as a siege engine, dropped from the heavens and crushed a man into the dirt. The impact sent a shockwave through the ground, and as the crystalline dust evaporated, the traitors looked around in a daze. Then, from the left, a massive fireball came screaming through the air like a falling sun.
"Huh?"
"W-wha—?!!"
THOOOM!
The explosion cratered the earth between the healers and the traitors, creating a wall of heat and smoke that halted their advance. The soldiers looked to their left, their eyes wide and desperate, searching for the source of the elemental assault.
There, emerging from the tree line like a vengeful ghost, was the full army of Therion, charging on their steeds. They weren't just a remnant; they were a complete, well-oiled machine of war.
"What? Therion is still alive?"
"That... that's Crimvane's-"
A soldier's knees buckled as he saw Lucien leading the charge, riding side-by-side with Duke Carvan. Vionette had positioned him there with surgical precision, ensuring that the Therion name would be associated with the savior of the rear, not the enemy of the state.
Slowly but surely, the hidden Caldris army merged with the traitorous rear units, but they found themselves sandwiched between the chaos of the main field and the fresh, relic-clad knights of Therion. The Therion soldiers stood as a barrier between the traitors and the healers, their shields gleaming with a light that seemed to mock the darkness of the betrayal.
"...Therion?" The knight who had delivered the original hint of war to Carvan spoke, his voice cracking with the realization of his own failure.
Carvan and Lucien brought their horses to a halt, standing like twin pillars of judgment. Their knights and mages fanned out behind them, a wall of Relic Grade steel that made the Aurelyth-ore armor look like rusty scrap.
Carvan looked down at the traitorous knight and smirked, a sound that was more of a growl.
"What? Are you surprised to see me, boy?" Carvan drew his new sword, the blade reflecting the crimson sky with a predatory glint. "You didn't just get caught, Caldris. You got played."
"You knew? You knew all along?" the traitor spat, gritting his teeth.
"No," Carvan shook his head slightly, his eyes softening with a strange kind of respect for the woman on the hill. "I didn't know anything. I was just... guided."
While the conversation ground on, Lucien turned his head toward the hill where Vionette and the others resided.
Vionette looked back at him from her perch, a faint, regal smile touching her lips—a silent commendation for a job well done. Lucien offered a shallow, respectful bow in return, a gesture of fealty that felt more like a partnership.
Then, his gaze shifted to Roswell, who was staring down in a state of catatonic shock, and then to Livora, whose expression was a mask of shattered assumptions.
Lucien slowly raised his hand. He clenched his fist, leaving only his middle finger pointing straight up at the 'allies' from Eryndor. An arrogant, sinister smirk stretched across his face, the look of a man who had just won a bet that everyone else thought was impossible.
You said we couldn't win, didn't you, Eryndor? His mind sang with a wicked delight. Look now. Look and learn how Crimvane rises from the ashes.