The mud of the marsh erupted under the heavy hooves of the Imperial warhorses.
"For the Empire!" Thorne bellowed, his spurs digging ruthlessly into his beast's flanks. Behind him, the entire squadron of Knights Gallant answered the call, ten heavily armored riders forcing their mounts into a lumbering, thunderous gallop. The horses screamed in protest against the unnatural, creeping chill of the marsh, but the Sergeant's iron will and foolhardy pride drove the formation forward. They lowered their lances, aiming a wall of castle-forged steel dead center at the ragged, hovering figure of the Void-Wight.
To Thorne and his men, it was just another monster to be crushed under the weight of an Imperial cavalry charge.
Elyndor Faelith did not wait for an order. The elven Knight-Sergeant understood the suicidal nature of a mundane physical charge against a Historic Fragment. With a silent, sharp gesture of his hand, the Arcane Bulwark surged forward to support the brash Imperials. Their Dweomerstele breastplates glimmered faintly in the gloom, their movements a fluid, perfectly synchronized dance of dwarven alloy and elven grace. They fanned out, moving to flank Thorne's heavy cavalry and draw the entity's lethal attention away from the lumbering formation.
Alaric felt the reckless shift through the Sovereign Weave. The tactical grid in his mind flared with crimson warning runes. He was a third-circle spellcaster now, his Deva soul having expanded to hold the raw, overwhelming mana of the ancients. He knew exactly what a Void-Wight would do to a squad of men in standard steel.
"Thorne, Faelith, pull back!" Alaric's voice boomed across the water, carrying the physical, undeniable weight of a Sovereign Command.
At the exact same moment, Alaric planted his boots into the mire and drew upon the deepest reserves of his mana. He raised his free hand, his fingers curling as a bead of blinding, compressed heat materialized in his palm. It was the fundamental, devastating art of the third circle, a Fireball. But Alaric did not just cast it, he overcharged it. He fed his residual Arcanist essence directly into the spell, pushing the magical lattice until the tiny sphere trembled with unstable, roaring plasma.
The flames of the present age will only feed the hunger of the void, young Sovereign, Alanor's voice resonated in his mind, a chorus of ancient elven wisdom and crystal clarity. We must unravel this remnant with the pure, unyielding weight of creation. Let us shift the tapestry.
"Change the weave," Alaric whispered, his eyes locking onto the target.
Through the Sovereign Weave, Thorne felt the terrifying, sun-like heat blooming behind him. Even through his brash imperial pride, the veteran survival instincts of the Knight Gallant took over. He hauled violently on his reins, bellowing the order for his squadron to abort. Ten warhorses reared up and pivoted desperately away from the center of the marsh, mud flying in thick arcs. Faelith and his Arcane Bulwark mirrored the maneuver flawlessly, a synchronized withdrawal executed at the very edge of absolute disaster.
Just as the hooves of the rearmost Gallant cleared the blast radius, Alaric unleashed the overcharged spell.
It tore across the marsh, but it was no longer fire. With Alanor's ancient guidance, Alaric twisted the arcane lattice at the final millisecond. The blinding orange bead inverted, stripping away the elemental heat and leaving only a sphere of crackling, translucent distortion. It was raw, unadulterated Force.
The projectile struck the Void-Wight dead center.
There was no fiery explosion, no roaring inferno to light up the night. Instead, a concussive shockwave of pure kinetic magic detonated with the sound of a shattering mountain. The marsh water in a forty-foot diameter was instantly annihilated, leaving a perfectly spherical, dry crater in the mud. The Void-Wight's physical anchor simply ceased to exist, its dark frost and ragged form ground into absolute nothingness by the overwhelming pressure of Historic-grade Force magic.
The resulting gust of wind nearly knocked the retreating Gallants from their saddles, while Faelith and his knights gracefully dropped low to let the shockwave pass over their Dweomerstele armor.
The swamp water rushed back into the perfect, spherical crater with a loud, sucking gasp. Sergeant Valerius Thorne fought to bring his terrified warhorse under control, the heavy beast sidestepping in the muck and snorting in panic. The rest of the Knights Gallant mirrored his struggle, their pristine castle-forged steel now splattered with the foul, black mud of the marsh.
Thorne pulled his mount to a halt a few paces from Alaric. The veteran soldier looked at the massive, empty space where the Void-Wight had been, then down at the eleven-year-old boy whose hand still smoked with residual arcane force.
Thorne's jaw clenched tightly. The strict hierarchy of the Imperial Army demanded he dismount and kneel before a prince of the blood, especially after a direct, near-fatal tactical blunder. But the pride of the Gallant, the deep-seated resistance to being commanded by a child, kept him firmly in the saddle. He gripped his reins, refusing to yield the physical high ground.
"Your Highness," Thorne began, his voice tight and gravelly with strained pride. "I misjudged the nature of the target. I offer my apologies for breaking formation. It will not happen again."
It was a stiff, begrudging concession, delivered from a higher elevation. A calculated, stubborn insolence. Elyndor Faelith stepped out of the shadows, his Dweomerstele Breastplate practically spotless despite the chaotic retreat. He did not sheathe his moon-blade. "A swift lance is useless if it charges blindly, human. Remember who commands this field."
Pride is a heavy armor, myPrince, Alanor whispered in Alaric's mind, his ancient tone carrying a hint of melancholy. It protects the ego, but it blinds the soul. Let him keep his high horse for now. The marsh will teach him the rest.
Alaric held Thorne's gaze for a second longer, letting the silence stretch, before turning his back entirely on the mounted knight. It was a dismissal more absolute than any scolding.
"Keep your men in the center, Thorne. Watch the flanks," Alaric ordered, looking toward the deeper, impenetrable dark of the tree line. "We push forward. Ignis, take the vanguard. Dawn, keep the Veil tight."
The Court Mage, Ignis Solari, drifted past the warhorses, the heat radiating from his robes causing the beasts to shy away once more. "As you command, little Sovereign," the Elementum hissed, his white-hot eyes burning holes into the fog. "Though I suspect the true rot of this swamp is still waiting for us."