Blood and dust stained the battlefield, every step Lumberling took cutting down another man. The Sengolio ranks were crumbling, their banners sagged, their men scattered like frightened dogs. With Lafuente dead, their courage had shattered.
But just as the rout began, something crashed onto the field like a mountain falling from the sky.
The ground split and shook. A shockwave tore outward, throwing men and horses alike, a wall of dust and dirt rising high. The shouts and cries were cut short, replaced by a stunned, ringing silence.
From the crater, a figure rose. An old man clad in heavy blue armor, his hair white as bone, a long spear gripped in his hand. His body was lined with age yet packed with coiled muscle, like someone who had lived too long to be considered ancient. His breath came in deep bellows as his eyes swept the field.
He lifted one finger, pointing at a trembling Sengolio soldier nearby.
