The impact was not a sound; it was a seismic vibration that shook the very foundations of the Grey Mountains. The wedge of Bretonnian cavalry, wrapped in the azure light of the Lady, crashed into the seething mass of demons like a meteorite hitting the ocean.
For the first time in the history of that valley, the Demons felt fear. The Bloodletters of Khorne, red-skinned, yellow-eyed beasts used to slaughtering mortals like cattle, discovered that their hell-forged swords bounced off the knights' holy aura. Conversely, when the Bretonnian lances struck, they didn't just pierce demonic flesh; they vaporized it.
Geneviève was the tip of the diamond. Duraz ran suspended on hooves of blue fire, not even touching the ichor-covered ground. In front of her, a wall of Pink Horrors of Tzeentch was hurling bolts of multicolored magic fire. Geneviève did not dodge. She raised Vesper's Light. The sword acted as a holy lightning rod. It absorbed the Chaos magic and dispersed it in a shower of harmless sparks. Then she struck. A horizontal slash. The shockwave of white light mowed down the first three rows of demons. The Horrors didn't split in two as usual; they screamed and vanished into nothingness, banished from reality by the purity of the blow.
To her right, Duke Tancred laughed. "Look at them!" he shouted, rejuvenated by twenty years, as his sword decapitated a lesser demon. "Look how they burn!" His men, who an hour before were desperate refugees, now fought with the ferocity of lions. The light emanating from Geneviève acted as a beacon: as long as they saw her shining, they knew they could not lose.
But Chaos is not an enemy that surrenders. It is infinite. The portal above Carcassonne pulsed violently, vomiting new monstrosities to replace the fallen ones. From the crush emerged a beast of metal and hate: a Juggernaut of Khorne, a demonic rhinoceros made of brass and infernal gears, ridden by a Bloodletter Herald. The beast charged laterally, trying to break the Bretonnian formation. It trampled two knights of Aquitaine, crushing them under tons of demonic metal.
Geneviève felt the distortion in the flow of battle. She turned Duraz. "Not today," she whispered.
The Juggernaut charged toward her, an unstoppable freight train. Geneviève didn't use brute force. She waited for the last second. When the beast was a meter away, Geneviève slid Duraz sideways with an impossible side-step. As the monster passed her, Geneviève brought the sword down. She didn't aim for the rider. She aimed for the beast. Vesper's Light, infused with the power of the Grail, cut through the demonic brass as if it were hot butter. She severed the Juggernaut's front legs. The metal colossus collapsed forward, plowing the ground with its snout, throwing its rider who was promptly impaled by Tristan's lance as he followed his commander.
"Forward!" ordered Geneviève, pointing her sword toward the city gates. The defenders on the walls of Carcassonne, seeing the army of light carving a path through the sea of monsters, took heart. The city bells began to ring out, a pure sound that hurt the demons' ears.
Geneviève carved a corridor of destruction. No demon could stand in her presence. Her holy aura caused physical pain to Warp entities within ten meters of her. Their skin smoked, their material stability wavered. She was the Anathema. The error in the Ruinous Powers' plan.
Finally, she reached the square in front of the destroyed gates. There, the chaos stopped. The lesser demons retreated, hissing, creating an empty circle of scorched earth. In the center, standing atop a pile of militiamen corpses, was Him.
The Daemon Prince was majestic in his horror. Almost five meters tall, he had a body that seemed carved from liquid obsidian, veined with magma. Great membranous wings obscured the sky above him. He wielded a gigantic scythe, etched with runes that made eyes bleed just looking at them. He was not a stupid beast like those of Khorne, nor a madman like those of Tzeentch. He was a General of Be'lakor. Ancient. Sentient. Arrogant.
He turned slowly toward Geneviève. His eyes had no pupils; they were pits of absolute void. He smiled, and his mouth revealed rows of shark teeth made of black glass.
"Ah..." said the Demon. His voice was not a sound, but an intrusive thought that violated the minds of everyone present. "The little spark that thinks it is the sun."
Geneviève stopped Duraz twenty meters from him. The demon's aura clashed with Geneviève's aura. The air between them sizzled, creating small static lightning bolts.
"I am not the sun," replied Geneviève. Her voice, amplified by divine power, rang clear as a silver trumpet, drowning out the screams of battle. "I am the steel that will drive you back into the dark."
The Daemon Prince laughed, a sound that cracked the stones of the nearby walls. "You drank from the cup of the Whore of the Lake. I smell her stench on you. But you are mortal, little knight. Your soul is a candle in a hurricane. I am eternal. I was here when the world was young, and I will be here when it is ash."
He raised the scythe. The portal above him pulsed, sending him a beam of purple energy that made him even larger, even more terrifying.
"Kneel," thundered the Demon. "And I promise you a quick death."
Geneviève dismounted. She patted Duraz's flank, ordering him silently to move away. This was not a fight for cavalry. She walked forward, alone, a small figure of white chrome against the mountain of darkness. She raised the visor of her helm for the first time in front of the enemy. There was no fear in her face. There was absolute calm. The calm of the eye of the storm.
"I do not kneel to monsters," said Geneviève, gripping Vesper's Light with two hands. "I kill them."
The Daemon Prince spread his wings, blotting out the sun. "Then burn."
He launched himself at her. The final battle for the soul of Bretonnia had begun.