Meanwhile, at the warded territory borders...
Gravenor's sword carved through demon flesh. Black ichor splattered across his armor as the thing shrieked and collapsed into shadow. Three more appeared behind it.
"Hold the line!" he roared at the coalition forces spread thin along the corridor. Caelan's soldiers fought alongside his own, with Delca commanding the left flank. "Refugees coming through, thirty seconds!"
A woman screamed somewhere to his left. A civilian.
He turned and saw a child, maybe six years old, separated from the fleeing caravan. She was stumbling, and demons were closing in.
He'd promised her he'd hold.
This is what she would want.
Gravenor ran, his boots hitting stone and dirt as his legs burned closing the distance. The child fell just as a demon lunged with claws extended.
Steel rang. Flesh gave.
Gravenor's blade caught it mid-strike. Momentum carried him forward, crashing into the thing with his shoulder. They went down together, rolling. He came up with his dagger and drove it through the demon's skull.
The child was crying, frozen with terror.
"I've got you." Gravenor scooped her up with one arm, sword still ready in the other. "You're safe now."
She buried her face against his neck. He could feel her heartbeat, rabbit-fast and desperate.
She would save this child. She would save all of them.
He ran back toward the protected corridor, the weight of the girl barely slowing him. Coalition mages held defensive wards at the flanks, creating a tunnel of safety toward the distant ward boundaries where true protection waited. The wards burned ozone into his lungs.
"Get her to the rear!" he shouted, passing the child to a medic. "Check for injuries!" The medic nodded and took off running while Gravenor turned back to the battle.
More refugees were coming. A merchant with his daughter limping beside him, blood soaking through her dress. An elderly couple helping each other, moving too slow with demons gaining on them. A pregnant woman struggling alone, one hand pressed to her swollen belly. There were too many vulnerable people and not enough soldiers to protect them all.
Not courage. Just guilt wearing armor.
But we hold anyway. That's what she would do.
"Reinforce the left flank!" Gravenor barked orders without thinking, his mind already three moves ahead. "Archers, focus fire on the demon clusters! Mages, rotate your wards, don't let them drain you!"
His second-in-command appeared beside him, breathing hard. "My lord, we're spread too thin. If they press harder..."
"They will press harder." Gravenor wiped blood from his face. Could be his. Could be demon ichor. The taste of iron filled his mouth. "Which is why we adapt."
He studied the battlefield with the tactical mind that had kept him alive through three decades of border wars. The refugees needed a clear path. The demons were trying to cut that path in multiple places. Standard strategy said pull back, consolidate forces, minimize losses.
But she wouldn't pull back. Not when lives hung in the balance.
"We hold," he said. Voice carrying across the corridor. "Every inch. Every refugee. We hold."
His soldiers looked at him. Exhausted, injured, some barely standing. They nodded anyway.
Because they trusted him. Just like he trusted her.
Whatever she was doing at Whitehall, it mattered. He didn't know the specifics, just that Caelan had taken her there urgently during a crisis. That it was critical enough to split their forces when demons were attacking. Caelan wouldn't abandon his men for anything less than something that could change everything.
Let her succeed. Whatever she's facing, let her triumph.
He'd seen what she was capable of. Witnessed her power firsthand when she'd saved his life, flames erupting from her hands with precision that took his breath away. She was extraordinary. Powerful enough to change everything if given the chance.
The coalition forces held the corridor. Barely. Demons pressed from both sides but the defensive wards held them back just enough. Refugees streamed through the gap, dozens at a time, heading toward safety.
Gravenor recognized some faces. The baker's wife from the village near his estate, carrying her infant. The blacksmith who'd repaired his armor last spring, supporting his elderly mother.
Real people with real lives who would die if the corridor collapsed.
She would want them saved. Every single one.
A demon broke through the left ward. Massive thing, twice the size of the others, with claws like swords. It went straight for the pregnant woman who'd fallen behind, too slow to reach safety.
Not this one.
Gravenor was already moving. Sword raised. Legs pumping.
Too late.
He reached her first. Stood between her and the demon, blade ready.
"Get behind me," he said, staying calm despite the adrenaline.
The demon lunged fast, too fast for comfort.
Gravenor met it head-on, his sword catching its claws with a sound like metal scraping stone. The impact drove him back a step. His boots skidded on blood-slick ground.
Behind him, the woman scrambled away, which was good.
The demon pressed its attack. Claws came from three directions at once. Gravenor blocked two and took the third across his ribs. Pain exploded through his side. Warm blood soaked into his armor, but he'd had worse.
He drove his blade up through the demon's chest. It shrieked and dissolved. Black ichor sprayed across his face, burning where it touched skin.
The pregnant woman was safe. A medic had reached her and was helping her toward the ward boundaries. The injury was worth it.
Gravenor pressed his hand to his side. Blood seeped between his fingers. The slash was deeper than he'd thought. It was wearing him down. Making him slower.
"My lord!" His second-in-command was there, offering support. "You're injured…"
"I'm functional." Gravenor straightened, ignoring the way his vision swam slightly. "Status report."
"Last group of this wave coming through now. Maybe twenty more." His second gestured toward the distant hills. "Scouts report another group an hour behind them. Slower. Elderly and wounded."
Twenty more now. Another group an hour behind them.
The refugees kept coming.
She would hold for all of them. So we hold.
"Maintain positions," Gravenor ordered. "No one falls back while civilians are still coming."
More demons were manifesting. He could see them appearing at the edges of the battlefield, drawn by the smell of blood and fear. The cosmic instability was making demon incursions worse outside the protected territories.
Wardlight crackled in his ears, a dry hiss like sand poured over glass.
Whatever was happening at Whitehall, it connected to this somehow. The demons attacking harder, more organized, like they were trying to stop something. Or distract from it.
She'll fix it. Whatever it takes, she'll succeed. I believe in her.
He thought about her sometimes, when the fighting paused. Remembered the way she'd looked at him after saving his life, fire still dancing in her eyes. The strength in her voice when she'd told him to trust her. The steel beneath her careful court manners.
She was everything a leader should be. Brave. Powerful. Willing to make hard choices for the greater good.
Am I enough? Can I hold long enough for her to succeed?
The doubt tasted bitter. He pushed it down. Maybe it was not courage. Maybe it was debt he could never repay.
The last refugees were coming through. He could see them, a straggling group trying to stay together. A young mother with twins clutching her skirts. A wounded soldier leaning on his brother. An old man carrying a child on his back. They were almost there, almost safe.
Demons surged forward in a final push, like they knew the corridor was about to close.
"Brace!" Gravenor shouted.
The impact hit like a wave. Demons crashed against the defensive wards from both sides. The mages holding the barriers staggered, power draining fast.
"Reinforce them!" Gravenor ordered. "Archers, suppressing fire!"
Arrows flew. Mages poured more power into failing wards. Soldiers held the line with shields and swords and sheer stubborn will.
The refugees ran. Stumbling, crying, bleeding, but moving toward safety.
Ten more seconds. That's all they needed.
Demons broke through the left defensive line where Delca's forces were thinnest.
They poured through the gap.
Gravenor was already there, his sword moving in patterns drilled by decades of combat. He kept cutting and blocking and striking to keep them back and keep the path clear.
Hold anyway.
His side burned where the earlier wound had opened wider. Blood loss was making him light-headed, his arms growing heavy with each swing getting slower than the last.
Grit ground between his teeth when he bit down, the taste of iron turning sharp.
But the refugees were through. The last civilian crossing into warded territory, safe at last.
She would be proud. We saved them. Every one.
"Fall back!" Gravenor shouted. "Controlled retreat to the ward boundaries!"
His forces responded with practiced efficiency. Fighting withdrawal, covering each other, moving back in formation.
Gravenor moved with them, slower than he should be, the wound in his side catching with every step.
A demon appeared in front of him. He raised his sword too slow, the exhaustion and blood loss finally catching up. The demon's claws aimed for his throat. He tried to block but couldn't quite make it.
Whatever you're doing, Seraphina... let it work. Let you succeed. These people deserve to live.
The demon lunged and his sword came up, but the world moved in slow motion as those claws closed the distance. He thought about her one more time, the fire in her eyes, the strength in her hands.
The claws reached for his throat.