On the opposite side of the battlefield, Lo Quen watched the wildfire jars arc into the castle's interior, a cold smile curving his lips.
"Loose!"
"Your Grace, allow me."
The Tattered Prince stepped forward.
Striding to the front lines, his sword-worn hand reached steadily toward a startled soldier. The man hurriedly offered him a well-kept sellsword bow and a quiver filled with fire arrows wrapped in thick, oil-soaked cloth.
The Tattered Prince tested the bowstring—it gave a low, resonant hum. He drew an arrow and calmly lit it from a nearby torch. Flames flickered in his deep, steady eyes.
He didn't look toward the tower or the walls. His gaze was fixed entirely on a stretch of stone where thick, viscous green liquid clung to the surface, seeping down through the mortar lines. That spot was where the fluid had gathered most densely, flowing the strongest.
The Tattered Prince stood motionless, like a carved statue.
In his world, there was only the bow, the burning arrow, and that flowing green wall.
The bow curved like a full moon.
The arrow flashed like a falling star.
No shout, no wasted motion.
The flaming arrow leapt from the string with a sharp, slicing whistle, tracing a brief, deadly streak of crimson light through the air.
At last, the flame touched the viscous, icy green liquid.
Ssshhh—crack!
The point of contact erupted instantly in a dazzling, unnatural flare of emerald sparks.
Then—
Boom!
A deafening explosion split the dawn. Centered on the impact, the section of wall drenched in green liquid—along with the debris stacked behind it and the soldiers nearby—was consumed and vaporized in a heartbeat by a torrent of searing emerald fire.
Boom! Boom! Boom! Boom! Boom! Boom!
All across the highland fortress, wherever the wildfire concentrate had splashed or seeped, the effect was the same. Each patch ignited like a colossal powder keg, erupting one after another into thunderous blasts and towering pillars of green flame that tore through the air.
The top of the main keep's tower, already soaked with the substance, burst into blazing inferno. Flames cascaded wildly down the walls, spreading like liquid fury.
On the eastern side, the sellsword camp—tents, supplies, barricades, even the very soil—soaked in the green mixture, became an unending sea of fire, pulsing with that eerie, otherworldly glow.
Boom! Boom!
Two even larger explosions erupted in the midst of the packed camp.
The shockwaves tore through everything within dozens of feet—tents, fences, men—ripping them apart and flinging them into the air. The thick green flames surged outward from the blast points, rolling and spreading in all directions, unstoppable.
This time, the sellswords saw it clearly—the true horror of this fire from hell.
"Water! Douse it with water!"
A squad leader of the Iron Shields bellowed, his voice breaking. Several soldiers scrambled for buckets, splashing water over a comrade wreathed in green fire.
Ssshhh!
The moment the water hit, the flames didn't die—they roared higher, shooting upward with a fierce hiss, burning even more violently than before.
The soldier drenched in water let out a blood-curdling scream as the flames surged over him, his body swallowed whole in an instant, becoming a blazing green fireball.
"Useless! Water's useless!!"
Terror swept through the ranks like a storm. They watched helplessly as their comrades rolled on the ground, trying desperately to extinguish the flames. But the thick green fire clung to skin and cloth like maggots to flesh, burning ever fiercer until it consumed its victims completely—leaving behind only blackened, twisted husks that reeked of charred meat.
Even more horrifying was how fast the fire spread. It flowed through the camp like a living river, and wherever it passed, everything turned to ash and warped cinders.
"No! My brothers!! My Bright Banners!!"
Kov, commander of the Bright Banners, roared, his eyes wide with grief and fury. He watched his proud red banner devoured by the green tongues of flame, watched his battle-hardened veterans struggle and scream in agony within the inferno, until all that remained were ashes.
He tried to charge into the blaze, but his personal guards seized him, dragging him back by force.
"Captain! You can't! That's the devil's fire—touch it and you're finished!"
"Retreat! Out of the camp! Fall back into the fortress!!"
Goghor, commander of the Iron Shields, bellowed, trying to rally the chaos. He ordered his men to raise their massive tower shields, forming a wall to block the advancing flames.
But before the flowing green fire, the shields might as well have been made of paper.
The flames latched onto the metal surfaces, burning with terrifying intensity. The heat seared through the steel, splitting open the soldiers' palms. Screaming, they dropped their shields, and the fire poured through the gaps, igniting the men packed tightly behind them.
The so-called defensive line collapsed in an instant beneath the emerald tide.
Mero of the Second Sons had long since lost his earlier mockery. His red-gold beard was singed by the heat, his face blackened with soot, and terror shone plainly in his eyes.
"Damn it! Damn those Eastern sorcerers!"
He cursed, kicking aside anyone in his path as he fled, desperate to escape the burning hell that surrounded him.
Daario Naharis stood atop the wooden tower, staring at the green inferno spreading below. For the first time, all color drained from his handsome face. His blue eyes reflected nothing but raw, unfiltered fear.
Without a second thought, he turned and sprinted toward the inner fortress, away from the fire.
Sellsword honor? A commander's duty? None of it mattered before the instinct to survive.
...
Inside the fortress, the camp of the Myr slave legion had descended into chaos.
Though the wildfire pots hadn't struck their crowded barracks directly, the green flames pouring down from the burning main tower—and the deafening explosions and screams echoing from the eastern sellsword camp—had already thrown them into panic.
"This is the gods' punishment!"
"That Easterner has summoned the dragon's breath!"
"We're all going to die! Burned alive! The gates are sealed!"
The slave soldiers huddled together in the narrow, filthy barracks, trembling uncontrollably. Most had been dragged from fields and workshops, untested and untrained, never having faced real war. The apocalyptic roar outside shattered what little courage they had left.
Commander Trombo, flanked by a handful of bodyguards, stumbled up a section of the western ramparts still untouched by the flames. His face was white as bone, his lips trembling as he struggled to stand.
Before his eyes, the main keep's tower had collapsed partially in the green fire. The Bright Banners' proud encampment was now a lifeless stretch of emerald-charred ground. He saw countless familiar faces—mercenaries he had once commanded—vanish into the flames.
The mighty steel wall of ten thousand sellswords he had relied upon melted away before that unnatural green fire like snow under the sun.
"It's over... all over..."
Trombo's voice was hollow as he stared blankly at the spreading emerald hell below. His family estate, his duty as protector of Myr, his promises to the Magister's office—all of it had been swallowed by the unearthly light.
He felt as though his very soul had frozen solid.
He didn't even notice when droplets of burning green liquid, flung by an explosion, splattered onto the grain warehouse below his position.
"Commander! Look out! The fire—it's spreading!"
A guard pointed down in horror. Tiny tongues of green flame leapt across the warehouse roof, then—
Boom!
Another explosion rocked the fortress. A surge of green fire shot across the air, instantly igniting the wooden walkway beneath Trombo's feet and the parapet beside him. The viscous flames raced hungrily along the timbers.
"Ahhh!"
Trombo screamed as his boots and trousers caught fire. The agony was indescribable. He tried to beat out the flames, but his hands only smeared the burning green liquid, spreading it faster.
His guards tried to reach him, but the heat was too intense. They could only watch in horror as their commander writhed and shrieked within the green blaze—until, at last, he became a rolling ball of fire, tumbling from the ramparts and plunging into the inferno below.