The battlefield stretched like an open wound across the land. Smoke rose in heavy plumes from shattered earthworks, and the cries of men and devils clashed with the ringing of steel. Kaelion stood on the forward ridge, his cloak whipping in the ash-laden wind, eyes never leaving the swirling chaos below.
The vanguard line had held for hours, their shields battered and blades dulled. Again and again they had pushed toward the palace gates, only to be swallowed by sheer numbers. Now, as the sun bled into the horizon, the enemy pressed harder, forcing them back with each clash.
Kaelion's mind worked like a machine. Every formation, every rotation of reserves, every weak point in the devils' tide flickered through his thoughts. Yet despite his strategies, the truth remained: they were losing ground. And if they failed to break through today, they would return tomorrow only to fight to the same stalemate—bleeding men and morale in equal measure.
