Around them, the greater battle raged with escalating fury. Gawain's solar might had reached its zenith. His blade, Galatine, now burned with light so pure it cast shadows that seemed more real than the substance they outlined. His strikes against the Egyptian bronze warriors carved away layers of divine enchantment until mortal flesh beneath remembered its own will.
"By the Round Table's honor," he cried, his voice carrying the weight of Camelot's lost glory, "by Arthur's dream and my own oath—no soul should be slave to another's will!" His blade swept in perfect arcs, leaving trails of sunfire that didn't burn flesh but rather the chains of compulsion binding the Egyptian warriors to Pharaoh's will.
