Dynham was shoved through the hall doors as quickly as possible, dragged out of the battlefield.
Evan watched him go with a tight jaw, then snapped his focus back to the square.
Outside, the fight had shifted again. The oil pit still belched smoke. The ice Ezra had forced onto the courtyard had cracked and refrozen in ugly patches—slick in some places, jagged in others.
And Orst was gone.
For a few seconds there was only arrows, shouting, and the steady pressure of bandits trying to lean the Anticourt Guard off the light.
Then the street bucked.
Orst erupted from the ground near the edge of the square, not fully out—just enough to throw.
He didn't go airborne; in open light it meant giving Galwell's roof team a clean line, even through smoke. A trueborn's bow was as strong as a spell.
He surfaced, planted one hand on the cobbles.
[Rock Bullet]
The boulder screamed through the air toward Ezra's knot of Knights.
Rycharde moved first, already reading the arc. He yanked Ezra sideways by the cloak.
The boulder missed Ezra by a breath. The projectile almost made contact with Rycharde, but it missed him by a few inches as well.
It clipped past his shoulder—so close the air slap rocked him—and then slammed into a cluster of Anticourt Guard behind them.
Six men vanished under it, smashed into steel and flesh.
The survivors screamed and scattered, breaking cohesion for a heartbeat.
The Knights of Anticourt still held the line. Oswyn barked at them, and they held—back to the nearest lamp post, shields angled, eyes forward.
Orst didn't let them recover. He cast another spell, aiming at the scrambling Rycharde, who had just started to regain his footing.
[Stone Gauntlet]
The gauntlet-turned-projectile fired with force.
Rycharde saw it late, but still tried to dodge.
The gauntlet tore through with enough force to knock him back.
He flew—twelve meters across cracked ice—skidding until he hit a low ridge of stone and stopped. Air left his lungs, but the projectile didn't do as much damage to him as the spell that forced Dynham out of the battlefield.
Ezra's eyes snapped to him. AMP flickered gold for a fraction—distance, angle, impact—and then Ezra shoved it down before it ate what little stamina he had left.
Orst's next move came immediately.
[Earth Wall]
A towering barrier rose between Orst, dwarfing Evered's own attempt at the spell. But Evered knew what came next. This was what terramancers of Orst's calibre were capable of.
So Evered cursed under his breath and sprinted toward Ezra and the Knights, planted his palm to the ground, and answered.
[Earth Wall]
His barrier didn't match Orst's.
Oswyn and three Anticourt Knights rushed to Evered's position, shields up, spears ready, plugging gaps and keeping bandits from slipping in under the walls.
Orst lifted both hands and planted them to his own wall of earth.
[Stone Barrage]
Fist-sized stones rained toward Evered's wall, peppering it with projectiles the size of fists. An uneven hammering shocked the shielding spell. Each stone buried itself or ricocheted somewhere else.
Evered's wall held, but it was getting chewed. Chips and dust sprayed into their faces. The Knights braced, pushing their weight into shields even though shields didn't help against falling rock. The other Knights channelled mana to reinforce Oswyn's spell.
Rycharde, having been blasted out of position, ran toward the shield, but he estimated that he could not reach it in time, so he grabbed two shields that were on the ground instead.
The spilling stone and ricocheting earth damaged parts of his legs and tore through the metal.
A stone slug skipped off the ice and slammed into his shin. He nearly fell.
Another caught his calf. Armor bent. Something in his leg did not bend with it.
He gritted his teeth and kept moving anyway, leaving blood behind him.
As the barrage activated and the projectiles kept going, he dove.
The cobbles trembled in a line that only Ezra could read cleanly, and Ezra was already too busy managing the surface fight to shout every second.
Evan and Rycharde were too preoccupied to pin Orst with the burning oil.
Orst erupted behind Evered's wall, right where the shadow of it made the ground look darker than it was.
He came up with a roar and swung immediately.
His fist hooked into the nearest Knight, which was Deimos.
Deimos' eyes widened in shock. He didn't expect Orst here.
Deimos tried to lean away, but the hook landed hard enough to turn his head and shoulders as one. He had shifted his weight enough that it prevented fatal damage; nevertheless, his chainmail burst under the leather cloak he wore. The force folded him sideways and threw him across the ice.
He hit, slid, rolled, and came up on a knee—breathing wrong.
Three ribs. At least.
The other Knight was not so agile. As soon as Orst landed the hook, he changed his position and clasped both fists together overhead, then smashed downward on the next Anticourt Knight.
The man's helm and skull met the cobbles; his head was crushed, killing him instantly.
Evered stepped into Orst's line, mace up, the only thing he could effectively use.
His body was in a dire state. His magic was sapped to almost nothing. The last wall had taken it out of him. His muscles were intact enough to move, but sluggish—no amplification left, no speed burst.
Orst turned toward him anyway, reading him as the only real obstacle in the lane.
Archers couldn't let loose with Deimos and Anticourt Knights tangled in the same space. A volley now would hit friend and foe alike.
Galwell's fingers itched for a snipe, but even he hesitated. Minimal lighting. Smoke. Orst's [Earth Armor] had been cast. A non-lethal hit would mean nothing.
And then Orst's punch came.
Evered saw it and braced—late and tired.
Evan didn't wait.
"Now!" Ezra snapped.
Evan activated what Ezra had made him prepare earlier: a delayed cast. This spell had taken some time to wind up.
[Flood Cannon]
A concentrated blast of water slammed into Orst mid-swing.
The impact wasn't just wet pressure—it was force. It caught his chest and face and shoved him backward across ice.
Orst's eyes widened, surprise flashing across that dead expression for the first time in minutes.
Evan angled the stream toward Orst's mouth and jaw, trying to drown the chant before it started.
Orst gagged and staggered. He hesitated; it seemed that in his mind he didn't know whether to attack or retreat. While the spell did pin him, it didn't damage him.
Oswyn took the opening.
He rushed in and hacked at Orst's legs with his halberd—low, brutal cuts aimed at joints.
His legs didn't break.
But they broke rhythm.
Orst stumbled. The flood engulfed him, forcing his arms up to protect his face.
Ezra's voice cut over the noise.
"Again—freeze the water. Now!"
Anticourt water mages stepped up, hands raised, chanting fast. But freezing that much water under combat stress took time, and Orst was already trying to push up through it.
Evan's flood thinned. His output was waning.
Orst's shoulders rose. He was about to stand.
Then the water locked.
Ice flashed over his legs and waist. The slurry turned solid. Orst froze in place mid-rise, trapped.
Ezra let out a breath he didn't want anyone to notice.
"Behead him, Oswyn," he thundered. "Now!"
Oswyn didn't hesitate.
He set his feet on the slick ground, raised the halberd like an executioner, and brought it down.
Orst's armor burst. He cast another spell, turning his armor into bolts.
Stone flew outward in all directions in a violent spray, as if Orst's [Earth Armor] had been packed under pressure and then released all at once.
Oswyn staggered, boots skidding on ice. Several rocks clipped Knights in the shoulders and helms. Ezra ducked and rolled by instinct, avoiding the worst of it.
Evan flinched but kept his feet, one arm up over Ezra's head as cover.
The blast was enough to give him enough time.
He flipped on the ice—heavy, fast for his size—and came up on a knee. His lips moved. The chant was low, almost inaudible.
Orst expected the defenders to scramble—expected confusion, retreat, the reflexive panic that followed a surprise explosion.
Confident that he had successfully neutralized everyone that posed a threat, he was able to cast something big.
Ezra, stones in hand, threw them toward the brute's mouth amidst the chaos of jostling Knights.
Orst barely noticed. He was already confident no one would interrupt his chant. Who would risk stepping close now, with ice underfoot and stone flying?
The first stone hit Orst's mouth, timing perfect.
It lodged inside—hard enough to jam between teeth and tongue, and then slide backward.
Orst choked.
His chant broke into a gag. He clawed at his throat, eyes flaring with sudden, furious panic.
The second stone skidded under his feet.
As he flailed for balance, he stepped on it.
His boot slipped on ice.
He went down again.
Spears flew.
Arrows followed.
A cluster of Anticourt Knights recovered in unison and sent [Stone Bullet] after [Stone Bullet] into his torso—fast casts, crude but relentless.
Orst smashed the frozen ground, wanting to dive.
The ground was still flooded and frozen in patches. Evan's earlier water had filled cracks and then locked. The ice wasn't perfect, but it was enough to disrupt clean entry.
Orst was given no rest. Attacks kept coming from every angle, and he was still gagging—still trying to dislodge the stone stuck in his throat.
Deimos, ignoring the pain in his ribs, dragged himself upright and snapped his whip.
The cord clapped through the air, seeking Orst's throat.
Orst smashed the ground, propelling himself backward, using the broken ice as leverage to dodge the whip and incoming spears.
He couldn't breathe.
But not dodging meant dying.
He kept gagging, pounding his stomach, trying to cough the stone free.
The Anticourt Knights didn't cheer or even speak. They were tired.
They stared at him with that flat soldier focus that meant finish it.
Most of them cast [Stone Bullet] again.
Orst spun, half-running, half-staggering, slipping on the ice as he tried to read angles and survive.
He saw projectiles fly and smash the ground.
An idea struck Orst as he was running out of breath.
A [Stone Bullet] of considerable force was cast slightly above his head. He didn't dodge, but tried to catch it with his stomach. He planted his feet on the ground and jumped. It crumpled the plate, but pushed out the air inside his stomach enough to make him lurch and free his throat.
He gasped for air; still no room for relief was in sight. He couldn't cast, he couldn't flee; he was trapped. The barrage of attacks didn't give him any reprieve.
Ezra threw another stone.
Orst saw it this time.
He overcorrected, moving his foot too fast.
The stone didn't need to trip him. It only needed to force him to hesitate.
Rycharde, wounded and breathing hard, saw the opening, and just slid.
He dropped to his back on the ice and used his hands to angle himself forward, chanting with controlled breath. His mana gathered—tight, dense, concentrated.
Ezra saw the charge and recognized it immediately; he was condensing a considerable spell.
Brilliant. He doesn't need legs. Ice is a road.
Ezra threw three more stones in quick succession, not aimed to injure—aimed to distract.
Orst's eyes kept flicking to the toddler's hand, tracking those little projectiles like they were knives. Orst had already identified him as the major threat amidst the Knights.
Phobos led the Knights who had regrouped, trying to surround the brute, but Orst was wary enough that he evaded the full encirclement.
What he needed was time.
Another stone sped to his face.
He dodged two. He stepped wide for the third.
His focus stayed split.
That was the point.
Rycharde slid into range.
He raised a palm, chant finishing on an exhale.
[Flame Blaze]
Liquid-like fire sprayed from his hand. A flamethrower line that cut through smoke and hit Orst squarely in the chest.
Orst's [Earth Armor] held for a moment, but then flickered out.