After the battle, a grim silence fell over the camp. Amazel moved among the fallen, her face an unreadable mask. She placed a hand on each of the forty-one corpses, and a rime of supernatural frost instantly flash-froze the bodies, preserving them perfectly.
With a wave of her staff, the earth opened to receive its somber burden. "We will return for them," she vowed, her voice cutting through the heavy air. "They will be honoured in the Central Lands, not left to rot in this accursed forest."
The second day's march took them across a barren, windswept plain. Death Worms, sensing their passage, erupted from the sand. But the trials of the forest had forged the legion. Their movements were sharp, coordinated, and instinctive. Before the massive worms could fully surface, coordinated strikes from vanguards and pinpoint spells from mages severed their nerve clusters, leaving them twitching in the dust. They marched on without a single casualty, a silent testament to their hardened resolve.
On the third day, the jagged peaks of the sharp edges of the Spine Mountains loomed before them. As they began their ascent, a rain of boulders cascaded down from the cliffs above. Amazel, anticipating the ambush, was already moving. 'Aegis Maxima!' A colossal, shimmering dome of energy materialised over the climbing column, deflecting the projectiles. High above, Julie's scouts, who had scaled the opposite face under the cover of illusion magic, descended on the ambushers. The enemy spies were captured before they could flee. Justice was swift and merciless. They were forced to drink a viscous, green venom that induced agonising muscle seizures before Julie's team bound them to the very boulders they had meant to use, leaving them to the elements and the slow, painful embrace of death.
When they finally crested the mountain and looked down upon Seb-ath's territory, a collective shiver ran through the army.
"We make camp here," Amazel declared, her voice ringing with finality. "We rest tonight. Tomorrow, we end this. Julie, scout the perimeter. I want the approaches to this valley littered with surprises for our host."
In a blink, the scout unit vanished into the rocky terrain. The camp that night was a model of paranoid efficiency. No fires were lit. The meal was cold rations, hardtack and dried jerky. Every soldier took watch, their eyes scanning the darkness, expecting an attack that never came. The silence was more unnerving than any assault.
The next day, they marched into the valley. Across the field, Seb-ath's forces awaited—a disciplined wall of scale-armoured warriors, their green banners snapping in the wind. Battle horns blared from both sides. Amazel's vanguard charged on her signal. Mages launched volleys of fire and ice.
But the enemy line did not advance. Instead, as the vanguard closed the distance, the front ranks of Seb-ath's army parted. A wave of despair washed over Amazel's forces. Before them, tied together and shoved into the path of the charge, were dozens of women and children, their mouths gagged, their eyes wide with terror.
"HALT! HALT THE ADVANCE!" Amazel's roar was frantic.
The charge collapsed into chaos. Front-line soldiers skidded to a stop, only to be slammed into by the ranks behind them who could not see the horror ahead. In that moment of confusion and moral crisis, Seb-ath's true front ranks—archers positioned behind the human shield—released a withering hail of arrows into the disorganised mass.
'Glacial Lance!' Amazel screamed, spearing a cluster of archers. "Gobuka! Tylon! Reform the line! Protect the captives!"
The two commanders fought like demons, carving a space to pull some of the prisoners to safety. But the damage was done. The tactical advantage was lost. Seeing her forces being systematically cut down, Amazel made the only choice she could. "RETREAT! SIGNAL RETREAT!"
A red flare arced into the sky. As her army peeled back, the enemy surged forward, eager to pursue, only to be met by a landslide of boulders triggered by Julie's scouts on the high cliffs. The path was cut, saving the retreating army from annihilation.
Back in camp, the mood was funereal. They had not just been defeated; they had been humiliated, outmanoeuvred by a foe with no honour. Amazel slammed her fist onto the map table, the wood cracking under the blow. "We lost forty per cent of our force to kill a fifth of theirs! And even that was mostly from traps!"
BOOM!
The world was torn apart. A deafening explosion erupted from the centre of the camp, precisely where the medical tents and the rescued captives had been housed. Amazel was running before the debris stopped falling. 'Torrential Rain!' she shrieked, summoning a localised deluge to douse the spreading flames.
Soldiers scrambled through the smouldering wreckage, pulling out bodies. Among them was Amar, his robes shredded and soaked in blood. Amazel dropped to her knees, her hands glowing with golden light as she cast 'Greater Heal'. Other healers joined her. After a long, terrifying moment, Amar coughed, a trickle of blood staining his lip as his eyes fluttered open. A wave of relief washed over those gathered, but it was short-lived. Others had not been so lucky. Sixteen healers and all the refugees were dead, many torn apart beyond recognition.
Later, in Amar's tent, Amazel listened, her expression cold. "Their stomachs... they began to glow with a red light," he rasped. "I felt the energy building, something vile. I shouted for everyone to run... but it was too fast. It was just like the bombing on the street... but we brought the bombs into our very heart."
Amazel offered a thin, terrifying smile. "Rest." Outside, the calm mask shattered. Inside, her soul fractured. 'My mercy did this. My compassion is a weapon he used against me. No more.' The grief and rage within her did not fade. They compressed, solidifying into a diamond-hard core of absolute resolution. Her aura, once warm and commanding, now radiated a palpable, chilling intensity.
The next morning, the army assembled. A different energy crackled among them, a shared, simmering fury for lost friends and lovers. Amazel stood before them, and the air grew cold.
"Today, I give you no complex orders. I set you no rules of engagement." Her voice was low, yet it carried to every soul, dripping with icy promise. "I only give you one command: show no mercy. Not to them, and not to yourselves. If you hesitate, I swear by all the hells, I will become the worst nightmare you have ever known."
Her power flared, a wave of psychic pressure that made the bravest soldier gasp. The silence was absolute, until Gobuka stepped forward, his face a grimace of rage. "WE. WILL. NOT." The army's roar of agreement was a thing of raw, savage sound.
On the battlefield, the scene was a grim mirror of the previous day, but the atmosphere was utterly transformed. Seb-ath's army unleashed its poison gas. Amazel and Sylphy simply gathered the cloud and hurled it back with a gust of wind. The enemy, prepared with masks, advanced unscathed.
Then, a figure erupted from Amazel's ranks. "YOU HURT MY BEST FRIEND!" Elfir howled, his body transforming into a meteor of deep crimson energy. He ploughed into the enemy's heart, and the world dissolved into fire. The poisons he had woven into his spell acted as a horrific accelerant, making the flames cling and melt flesh and armour alike. "HAHAHA! THIS IS HOW YOU PLAY WITH FIRE!" His maniacal laughter fuelled the other fire mages, who became living artillery, unleashing their power without restraint.
The battle descended into beautiful, brutal chaos. There were no lines, only pockets of vengeance. Gobuka was a whirlwind of death, each swing of his sword claiming a life. Then, a blur of motion. A searing coldness. He stared, uncomprehending, as his own severed hand, still gripping his sword, tumbled through the air. He barely felt the pain, his eyes already locking onto the figure before him—a wispy spectre with bladed arms and a featureless grey mask.
The Sword Ghost had arrived.