Tessia Eralith
The order from the higher ups came like a sudden, icy downpour on a summer day—swift, shocking, and drenching us in urgency.
Seeing the emergency reports of the Alacryan navy massing off Elenoir's northern coast, my team and I were ripped from the structured familiarity of the Trailblazer Division and flung north back to my home kingdom.
Reassigned as garrison reinforcements for the perilous border where the ancient Elshire Forest met the encroaching wildness of the Beast Glades.
Home. They were attacking my home.
Walking among the primarily elven troops tasked with guarding the whispering, mist-shrouded giants of the Elshire was a peculiar weight.
I was Princess Tessia Eralith.
I have always been Princess Tessia Eralith, yes, but here, amidst the sentinel trees and the scent of damp earth and pine resin, I felt that title more acutely than ever.
The soldiers—many faces I recognized from childhood festivals in Zestier, some older warriors who had served my own grandfather in the second war—looked to me not just as a commander, but as a symbol.
Their Princess, a high-stage silver core mage, fighting shoulder-to-shoulder with them in defense of the sacred woods our people called home since we had memory.
I saw it in their eyes, a flicker of bolstered confidence, a fragile ember of hope lit by my presence.
It was humbling, terrifying, and ignited a fierce, protective fire within me that burned hotter than any spell. Was this what Corvis felt every single day?
"Tessia, you're strung tighter than a bowstring," Caria observed, her voice a low murmur beside me. Her strong fingers found the knotted muscles of my shoulders, kneading with surprising gentleness despite the callouses earned from her gauntlets. "Breathe. You'll snap before the Alacryans even get close."
We were in a temporary clearing, a rare pocket of dappled sunlight piercing the perpetual twilight of the forest floor filled with perpetual mist.
Stannard and Darvus were nearby, their voices a low, comforting rumble as they debated the merits of different beast core payloads, a familiar argument that usually made me smile.
Today, the sound barely registered. Despite no longer being one of the official heads of the Trailblazer Division, the mantle of responsibility felt heavier here, woven from threads of lineage, love for the forest, and the raw fear in the eyes of the soldiers looking to me.
"I know, Caria," I sighed, the sound escaping like steam from a pressured valve. "I know." I leaned slightly into her touch, the physical anchor a brief respite.
We were lucky, in a grim sense. The natural, soul-chilling mist that perpetually clung to the Elshire Forest's deeper reaches was proving a formidable, fickle ally.
It disoriented the Alacryans, swallowed their formations, turned their advances into stumbling, confused probes easily ambushed by elves who knew every root and whispering branch.
But these weren't the skirmishers or beast handlers we'd faced before. These were the hardened core of the Vritra's legions—disciplined, relentless, their armor darker, their spells more brutal. The real army had arrived.
Closing my eyes, I sought refuge inward, focusing on the swirling vortex of silver light that was my mana core. It pulsed with potent energy, a silvery spherical sea nearing its zenith, the first faint, almost imperceptible hints of incandescent white shimmering at its edges like dawn breaking on a molten horizon.
A small, private smile touched my lips. Almost there. White core. An important milestone. A solid shield and a mighty weapon.
And perhaps, just perhaps, I'd reach it before Corvis. My brilliant, infuriatingly capable twin excelled at everything—strategy, artifice, sheer stubborn resilience.
But this… this cultivation, this inner fire… maybe this was the one edge I could claim. A childish thought, perhaps, but in the face of the dread looming beyond the mist, it was a tiny, defiant spark of normalcy.
The fragile moment shattered. A ripple of unnatural sound tore through the forest's usual symphony—not birdsong or rustling fauna, but the panicked skittering of forest creatures fleeing, the frantic rustle of leaves as unseen things crashed through the undergrowth.
Fear, primal and immediate, replaced the meditative calm.
Albold materialized as if conjured from the shadows themselves, landing soundlessly on a thick branch overhead. His expression was grim, eyes scanning the southeast with the focused intensity of a hawk.
"Alacryans!" His voice, though low, carried the weight of a shout in the sudden silence. "Sighted advancing, a hundred meters southeast! Full combat strength!" His gaze snapped down, locking with mine. A silent understanding passed between us. He gave a curt, decisive nod.
Instantly, the clearing transformed. The low murmur of voices ceased. Weapons were snatched up, shields raised, the metallic rasp of blades leaving scabbards a chilling chorus.
The squads positioned around us, a mix of seasoned veterans and wide-eyed recruits, snapped to readiness.
Camus Selaridon, my grandfather's old friend and the battalion's grizzled commander, began barking orders, his voice a steady rock in the rising tide of tension.
Yet, despite his authority, countless eyes—elven eyes filled with fear, determination, and a desperate plea for leadership—flickered towards me. The Princess. Daughter of the forest, their monarchs, sister of Prince Corvis. Their beacon. The weight settled on my chest, heavy and cold, but I straightened my spine, meeting their gazes with what I hoped was unwavering resolve.
"Stannard! Darvus! Positions!" My voice cut through the din, sharper than I intended, but it carried the necessary command. The boys snapped into action, Stannard checking the intricate runes on his crossbow, Darvus hefting his double axes, his usual easy grin replaced by a warrior's grim focus.
My hand instinctively flew to the pendant resting against my sternum, hidden beneath my armor. Half of a whole, its twin carried by Grey.
Cool metal met my fingertips, grounding me. The intricate carving, a promise exchanged in a quieter moment, pulsed with memory—his steady eyes, the warmth of his hand in mine, the terrifying, exhilarating vulnerability of confessed love.
For Grey. For my family. For everything I held dear. I clutched it, drawing courage not from royalty, but from the fierce, protective love it symbolized. Then, we moved, dissolving into the emerald gloom of the Elshire, shadows among shadows, flowing towards the encroaching storm.
———
The Elshire Forwst fought with us thanks to the thousands of traps formerly set up. Its ancient roots became tripwires, its thick canopy choked Alacryan sightlines, and its chilling mist swirled around their formations, turning coordinated assaults into isolated, panicked skirmishes.
Yet, they came.
Relentless. Brutal. Their Strikers were faster, their Shields conjured barriers of crackling energy that resisted our spells longer.
My world narrowed to the dance of death. With a surge of will, I activated the second phase of my Elderwood Guardian Beast Will. Power, ancient and verdant, flooded my body and mana veins.
Green energy patterns traced themselves across my skin and on my eyes, strength surged in my limbs, and my connection to the forest deepened into an almost tangible hum turning my hair green.
Six shimmering, razor-sharp Sylvan Shards materialized around me, filling me with determination. I didn't use them as mere spell swords anymore—an idea of Grey, actually.
I trained hard to conjure more of them, commanding those Sylvan Shards with my mind while I used my wand-sword as the real weapon casting spells along with using it as a sword.
I launched one, then another, their emerald light slicing through the gloom. A dark-armored Alacryan Striker raised a spiked buckler, but my Shard shattered it like rotten wood, the force sending him staggering.
Darvus roared, his two axes a blur, carving into the opening I created, while Caria, her gauntlets wreathed in mana, slammed another foe into a tree trunk with a sickening crunch.
Stannard's crossbow sang from the rear, bolts tipped with concussive beast cores exploding amidst clusters of enemies, buying us precious seconds to regroup.
I fought primarily in the lethal ballet of melee. My elven senses—heightened by the Beast Will and honed by battle experience—painted the battlefield in hyper-detail: the shift of an enemy's weight before a lunge, the faint mana flicker preceding a spell, the rasp of breath from a concealed attacker.
I moved with fluid grace, Sylvan Shards parrying blows or darting out like vipers, forcing engagements one-on-one where my agility and forest-born instincts gave me the edge.
While I made the Sylvan Shards dance, my wand-sword moved with elegance conjuring bullets of wind and commanding the plants to do my bidding: blocking Alacryans' feets with roots, using vines as whips and making trees fall on the enemies.
Yet, even amidst my own deadly dance, I couldn't help but track Albold. He was a ghost. An initial-stage silver core, two full stages behind me, yet his presence on the battlefield was ethereal.
He moved through the towering trees with impossible silence, a shadow flitting between branches, his mana signature suppressed to near non-existence—a technique I'd only ever seen Corvis and Grey use.
Corvis must have taught him. The realization brought a pang of complex emotion—pride in my brother's skill as a mentor, a flicker of that old sibling rivalry, and profound relief that Albold possessed such an edge.
He'd trained relentlessly with Corvis under Grandaunt Rinia's care, I knew, but witnessing it firsthand was another thing entirely.
Corvis didn't just teach; he unearthed potential, forged diamonds from rough stone. Albold was lethal poetry in motion, a silent counterpoint to my own more visible, forceful presence.
"Caria! Behind!" My shout ripped from my throat as I saw the glint of an Alacryan blade aimed at her exposed back. I gathered wind mana, ready to unleash a piercing gust, but before the spell fully formed, a soft thwump sounded.
Stannard's bolt, tipped with a weaker beast core, struck the attacker square in the chest, not killing but blasting him off his feet and into a thorny thicket. Caria spun, eyes wide, offering Stannard a quick, fierce nod of thanks.
The battle wore on, a brutal, grinding attrition. Minutes bled into what felt like hours. The triumphant shouts of our initial ambushes faded, replaced by the grim sounds of clashing steel, pained cries, and the wet thud of impacts.
We lost ground, meter by precious meter.
Elven warriors I'd known by sight fell, their light extinguished in the mist. Alacryan bodies littered the forest floor, but more kept coming, their attacks growing more ferocious, more desperate. The tide was turning.
I found myself pushed to the very front of our crumbling line. Elder Camus fought valiantly nearby, but it was me the soldiers instinctively looked towards as the pressure mounted.
The weight was crushing, a pressure on my chest, but I planted my feet, Sylvan Shards whirling defensively, then I conjured a barrier of living wood erupting from the earth at my command to further impede the enemy advance.
My breath came in ragged gasps, sweat stinging my eyes beneath my helm. The mist, our ally, felt suddenly cloying, thick with the coppery scent of blood.
"Princess!" Albold's voice was a sharp whisper, suddenly beside me. He dropped from a lower branch, landing silently despite the leaf litter, his breathing barely elevated. His face was smudged with dirt and something darker, his eyes holding a grim urgency that cut through the battle fog. "I pushed deeper. Scouting their rear elements. There's a powerful enemy incoming."
My heart stuttered. "A Retainer?" The word tasted like ash. We couldn't face a Retainer here, not with our forces already strained to breaking.
"Perhaps," Albold said, his voice low and tight. "The power signature… it's wrong. Corrosive. His Highness briefed us on potential Decay mages—Poison or Acid affinity. This feels... like it's eating the air itself." He wiped a smear from his cheek, his gaze sweeping our beleaguered line. "It's moving this way. Slowly, deliberately. Testing the water, maybe. But when it hits…"
A cold dread, deeper than the Elshire's mist, seeped into my bones. Albold and Corvis shared a unique bond—the fiercely loyal bodyguard and the brilliant, driven prince. Their closeness had deepened only in recent years, forged in shared dangers and Corvis's relentless drive to prepare everyone around him.
Albold knew Corvis's mind, his strategies, his assessments of enemy capabilities. If he said this mage felt like a Retainer-level, I believed him.
"Do you think…" I swallowed hard, forcing the tremor from my voice, "…we can stop it?" I gestured with my chin towards the wall of roots I maintained, already feeling the drain of sustaining it under constant assault. "Before it reaches the main line?"
Albold's gaze met mine, unflinching. In his eyes, I saw no false bravado, only the cold calculus of a soldier assessing odds. "Hope is a luxury, Princess. But I have a plan. Using what His Highness taught me… my stealth techniques, the precision strikes… combined with my own training… I can land a fatal blow." He paused, his jaw tightening. "If I get the opening. A single, clear shot at its mana core."
Understanding clicked into place. A high-risk gambit. A sniper's mission against a walking apocalypse. "I understand, Albold," I said, my voice gaining strength from his resolve. "Where is this… thing?"
"Three hundred meters that way," he pointed deeper into the mist-shrouded southeast, the direction the Alacryans were pushing hardest. "Surrounded by guards, but they're standard infantry. My bow and I can thin them out, create a path. The battalion needs to hold the rest of the Alacryan force here, keep them focused, prevent them from reinforcing the target's position. The forest…"
He looked up at the towering trees, the swirling mist. "The forest will do the rest once the head is cut off."
He meant the chaos, the disorientation. The Elshire Forest reclaiming its territory. I nodded, the movement sharp. "We'll hold them. We'll draw their fire. Give you your shot." The weight hadn't lessened, but it had crystallized into purpose. I had to trust the ghost in the leaves.
"Lead the way."
With a final, grim look exchanged, I turned back to the fray. Raising my voice, channeling mana to make it ring clear above the din, I called out, "Elenoir! To me! Push them back! For our Home!"
The response was a ragged but determined roar. As the battalion surged forward with renewed, desperate fury, buying Albold his needed seconds, I followed the faintest disturbance in the mist—the shadow of a ghost moving towards a heart of decay.
———
The final, grim nod from Elder Camus settled like a stone in my stomach. The plan I and Albold devised was madness—a desperate gambit hinging on stealth, refined assassination, and a sliver of hope thinner than a spider's silk.
With a conscious effort, I willed my six shimmering Sylvan Shards to dissolve, the verdant light fading back into the ambient mana of the forest. The sudden absence of their protective hum left me feeling startlingly vulnerable. The air, thick with the perpetual mist of my homeland and the coppery tang of distant blood, pressed in.
Ready yourself Tessia, I commanded silently, gripping my wand-sword until the leather-wrapped hilt creaked. For whatever horror approaches.
We weren't fighting in a void or in an untamed area of the forest. Just a kilometer or two through the ancient trees laid a small village, a cluster of dwellings woven into the very roots and branches of the giant trees.
Its name escaped me in the adrenaline haze, but its plight was a constant, gnawing pressure behind my ribs. Many stubborn elders, their lives etched into the bark of those trees, had refused evacuation.
Others, villagers with fire in their eyes but terror in their hearts, had stayed, grabbing pitchforks, hunting bows, anything that could serve as a weapon.
Their sheer, defiant bravery was a testament to the Elv—to the Dicathian spirit, a flicker of warmth in the encroaching cold. Yet, it also plunged my heart into an icy abyss.
The weight of my title, Princess Tessia Eralith, felt heavier than the oldest oak. It wasn't just a name; it was a promise, a shield I was supposed to be. If this… thing Albold sensed—this Retainer—reached that village… images flashed, unbidden: toxic spells slicing through fragile wooden walls, acidic mist dissolving ancient homes, the terrified cries of those who trusted me to protect them.
The responsibility was a chain to my heart, dragging me down even as I forced myself to stand tall.
A sharp, bird-like whistle cut through the oppressive silence, high above. My gaze snapped upwards, piercing the swirling grey-green mist. Albold, a mere silhouette against the dense canopy, gestured urgently southeast.
Towards an unnatural stillness. I moved, silent as the forest itself allowed, my senses straining. Then it hit me—a smell. Not the familiar damp earth or pine resin, but something thick, cloying, and profoundly wrong. Rot.
Not the natural decay of fallen leaves, but a chemical, acidic putrescence that burned the back of my throat and made my eyes water. It was the stench of corruption, of life being forcibly unmade.
I crouched low behind a curtain of thick, hanging moss, peering into a small clearing that felt… violated. The vibrant undergrowth was withered, blackened. The moss on the trees hung limp and grey. In the center stood a figure that seemed carved from the essence of the smell.
Tall, unnaturally so, with limbs like bleached, knotted branches—skeletal yet taut with wiry muscle that bunched grotesquely under pallid, almost translucent skin. Long, lank hair the color of stagnant swamp water hung over a face dominated by two sunken pits where eyes should be.
They weren't just dark; they were voids, sucking in the feeble light, devoid of anything resembling life or sanity.
The Retainer.
"Aaah," a voice creaked, dry and sibilant, like leather dragged over gravel. It emanated from the skeletal figure, though its lipless mouth barely moved. "This forest is disgusting. Dank. Cloying. And this infernal mist."
He swiped a claw-like hand through the air as if batting away cobwebs. A faint green vapor trailed his fingers. "I can't wait to put my hands on some elves. Hear them sizzle."
My blood ran cold. Beside him, four Alacryan soldiers in lighter scout armor shifted nervously, their eyes darting towards the forest shadows. One, perhaps trying to appease the nightmare he served, offered,
"It won't last long, Retainer Bilal. Once we conquer this backward nation, this whole… thicket… will be cleared. Prime fuel for the Highbloods' new estates. Good, clean burning."
Fuel? The word slammed into me with physical force. A wave of primal, instinctual disgust, deeper than fear, washed over me. It wasn't just offensive; it was sacrilege. The Elshire Forest wasn't timber. It was memory etched in the blood in my veins. It was the sanctuary of the elven people since the first elves were born. It was life.
For millennia, elves hadn't cut down trees; we lived with them, built around them, revered them. To hear it reduced to mere kindling for Alacryan mansions… it felt like a violation of my very soul. The forest itself seemed to recoil; the mist thickened angrily around the clearing's edges.
A choked gasp shattered the moment. One of the soldiers clutched his throat, an arrow fletched with Elven feathers protruding neatly below his jaw. He crumpled soundlessly. Instantly, the remaining three Shields snapped into action, hands flaring as shimmering barriers of force sprang up around them.
But Bilal… Bilal didn't flinch. Instead, a sickly, luminous green mana began to ooze from his pores. It flowed over his skeletal frame like sentient slime, thickening, hardening, forming plates and spiked pauldrons, encasing him in armor made of pure, corrosive poison.
It reminded me chillingly of Corvis's own mana-infused steel grey battle uniform—a perverse, corrupted mirror of my brother's genius. The air hissed where the green vapor met the mist.
I didn't hesitate. Channeling every ounce of my connection to the enraged forest, I unleashed my Wildsea. It wasn't just my strongest spell; it was a cry of fury, a command the Elshire Forest answered with terrifying ferocity.
The woods themselves erupted. Roots tore from the earth, whipping like serpents. Vines became barbed whips. Every leaf within twenty meters and more sharpened into a razor edge.
Twigs hardened into javelins, branches snapped off like giant spears. It was a localized hurricane of vengeful vegetation, a jet stream of splintered wood and razor-sharp flora screaming towards Bilal and his remaining guards with the focused fury of the forest itself.
My mana core flared, pouring power into the onslaught, the sheer force of it making the ground tremble.
My gaze darted, searching for Albold. Nothing. He was a ghost, vanished back into the emerald gloom, biding his time. I needed to trust him. Hold his focus.
Shhhiink! Shhhiink!
Two blades, forged from that same vile, glowing green sludge, materialized in Bilal's hands. He moved them with unnatural speed and precision, carving through my Wildsea onslaught like a hot knife through rotted cloth.
Where the toxic edges passed, the vegetation didn't just fall or decay; it dissolved, melting into blackened sludge that sizzled and popped on the forest floor, releasing fresh waves of that nauseating stench.
My magnificent wave of nature faltered, withering before his corrosive defense.
"An elf? All the way out here?" Bilal's void-like eyes swiveled towards my hiding place. A flicker of something disturbingly like interest ignited in those dark pits—a sickly yellow light deep within the blackness. He clicked his tongue, a sound like fat dripping onto hot coals.
"Delightful." Then he moved. Not with the lumbering gait his frame suggested, but with terrifying, insectile speed, closing the distance between us in a blur of toxic green.
Instinct took over. My six Sylvan Shards snapped back into existence, whirling around me in a defensive constellation. They weren't for offense now; they were shields, extensions of my will.
Clang!
Screech!
Hiss!
Emerald light met viridian poison as my Sylvan Shards intercepted his twin blades in a furious, high-speed dance. Sparks, tinged green, flew with each parry. The impact jarred my arms, the sheer brute force behind his skeletal frame shocking. With my Shards occupied, I drew my wand-sword, its familiar weight a comfort.
Mana surged down the blade's length—wind and plant affinity intertwined. I aimed not at Bilal directly, but at the ground beneath his feet. Thick, gnarled roots, as thick as my thigh, erupted, seeking to coil around his legs, to pin the monstrous Retainer.
He didn't even look down. The toxic sludge comprising his blades flowed in an instant, spreading across his limbs like liquid armor. Where the roots touched the green ooze, they didn't just burn; they liquefied. The smell of charred wood and acrid poison filled the air, making me gag. My trap dissolved into useless sludge before it could take hold.
I can overwhelm him. Gritting my teeth, I redirected the Sylvan Shards. Two streaked towards each leg joint, two towards his wrists holding the toxic blades, one aimed for the center of his chest, the last for the base of his spine. A coordinated, simultaneous assault from six angles, powered by high silver core mana and the forest's fury.
Bilal reacted with chilling efficiency. His blades became blurs of toxic light.
Crack!
Shatter!
Dissolve!
He destroyed each and every one of my Sylvan Shards. One Shard shattered under a brutal overhead chop, its fragments dissolving mid-air. Another met a vicious horizontal slash and exploded into fading emerald motes. A third was batted aside, embedding itself harmlessly in a tree trunk that immediately began to blacken and weep.
The Sylvan Shard aimed at his spine he simply sidestepped, letting it bury itself in the poisoned earth. The assault on his limbs was deflected with contemptuous ease, his corrosive armor shrugging off the impacts. In seconds, my Sylvan Shards were gone. Annihilated. The backlash from their destruction jolted through my body, a sharp spike of pain.
Before I could summon more, he was on me.
I raised my arms, pouring mana into a desperate defense and relied heavily on ny Beast Will. Bark, thick and ancient, surged from the forest floor and my own skin, encasing me in a protective sphere just as Bilal's blades came down in a vicious, scissoring arc aimed to sever my arms at the shoulders.
CRUNCH! HKSSSSSS!
The impact was brutal, shaking me to my bones. The toxic blades bit deep into the living wood, not cutting cleanly, but burning, melting their way through. The smell inside the sphere was overpowering—hot sap, charred wood, and that hideous, acidic rot. Heat radiated from the points of contact, the wood blackening, steaming, disintegrating under the relentless corrosive assault.
I poured more mana in, reinforcing the shell, but it was like trying to hold back an acid tide with bare hands. The blades ground deeper, inch by terrifying inch, green light spilling through the widening cracks. Panic clawed at my throat.
Albold! Where are you?! I need you NOW!
A guttural roar of pain, not mine, shattered the hissing tension. The relentless pressure on my wooden shell vanished. The toxic light dimmed. I didn't hesitate. With a surge of will, I dissolved the sphere.
The scene before me froze time. Albold was behind Bilal. His short sword, gleaming silver and grey, was buried to the hilt in the Retainer's back, precisely angled upwards beneath the edge of the toxic breastplate, piercing deep into the region of the mana core.
Bilal arched backwards, a strangled gasp escaping his lipless mouth, void eyes wide with shock and agony.
But Albold… Albold's hands, clenched around the sword's hilt, were smoking. The vile green sludge of Bilal's armor, disturbed by the thrust, had splashed onto his skin. It sizzled. Flesh bubbled and blackened instantly. The smell of burning meat joined the horrific cocktail of decay.
"ALBOLD! YOUR HANDS!" My scream ripped through the clearing, raw with horror.
Bilal thrashed, a dying insect, his head whipping around with unnatural speed, a maddened snarl contorting his skeletal features. His corrosive magic was flickering, the armor losing cohesion, dripping like melting wax. Albold had struck true. The core was pierced and the monster was dying.
Rage, cold and pure, flooded me. Not just for Elenoir, not just for the forest, but for the loyal guard sacrificing his flesh to save me.
My wand-sword flashed, a single, brutal arc fueled by silver core mana and the Elderwood Guardian's fury.
It wasn't a finesse strike or an elegant move; it was an executioner's blow. Bilal's head, still twisted in a rictus of madness, tumbled from his shoulders, hitting the poisoned earth with a dull thud. The headless body slumped, the remaining toxic sludge losing all form and hissing violently as it dissolved into the blackened ground.
I was at Albold's side in an instant. He swayed, his face bone-white beneath the grime, teeth clenched so hard I feared they'd shatter. His hands… gods, his hands. The skin was gone in patches, revealing raw, bubbling flesh and glimpses of bone beneath the sizzling green residue. The pain must have been unimaginable.
"You are insane, Albold!" The words tore out of me, laced with terror, fury, and a desperate, overwhelming gratitude. Tears pricked my eyes, hot and furious. "You and my brother… you're cut from the same reckless, self-sacrificing cloth! Utterly mad!"
A weak, pained chuckle escaped his bloodless lips. Sweat beaded on his forehead, mixing with dirt and the horrific residue.
"I… I take that as the highest compliment, Princess Tessia," he managed, his voice tight with agony but holding a thread of fierce pride. "The sacred duty… of House Chaffer… is to defend the Eralith line. With our lives. Our limbs…"
He glanced down at his ruined hands, a flicker of something unreadable in his eyes before resolute determination snapped back. "…are a small price. And…" He managed a grim, blood-flecked smile, nodding towards the headless corpse. "…we felled a Retainer."
In the distance, the cacophony of battle still raged—the clash of steel, the roar of spells, the cries of the wounded. But a shift was already palpable in the air. A tremor of uncertainty rippling through the Alacryan ranks.
The oppressive, corrosive aura that had emanated from Bilal was gone, dissipated like the vile mist it resembled. News of the Retainer's death would spread like wildfire through their lines. The tide, so nearly turned against us, was poised to shift once more.
We had bought Elenoir, and the stubborn village clinging to life nearby, a desperate breath.