The Blackwell flank surged forward, seven thousand mounted knights thundering across the misty plain, a wall of steel and shadow in motion. Lances glinted, banners snapped in the cold air, and the thunder of hooves struck like distant drums, shaking the earth. Every knight knew their place, every horse felt the rhythm of war, moving as one disciplined organism toward the enemy's left.
Lucian struggled to keep pace. His black destrier strained, muscles coiled, hooves slipping slightly in the churned mud, every step hesitant as if aware of the danger. The rhythm of thousands of hooves, the metallic clash of armor, and the shouted commands ahead hammered at him.
Captain Harlan rode closer, eyes sharp with worry and frustration. "You think to linger behind deliberately, little lord? Do you wish to survive while your house bleeds, your father fights, and your men fall around you?!"
Lucian's grip on the reins tightened, jaw firm. He said nothing. Around him, the metallic chorus of armor, the cries of men and horses, and the weight of the coming battle pressed like a vice.
Ahead, the Varkell mercenary cavalry advanced—five thousand to the right, five thousand to the left—flags snapping independently, their discipline untested, their loyalty questionable. The center infantry of thirty thousand braced in tight squares, ready to receive the charge. Each flank crept slowly toward one another, tension heavy in the air, steel glinting through the morning mist.
Then the sky changed.
Darkness poured from the heavens, clouds roiling unnaturally, the air thick with ozone and foreboding. Pressure built in Lucian's chest; his ears popped. Hundreds of lightning bolts erupted, smaller than a single strike but countless, weaving through the air like divine fire, ceremonial and merciless. The bolts struck with unerring precision, searing the ground, snapping timber, hurling horses into frantic panic. The mist became smoke; screams and fire filled the horizon.
His destrier reared violently, terrified by the supernatural storm. Lucian was thrown, twisting through the air, chest slamming into the mud with a sickening impact. He tasted iron and ash, heard screams mingled with thunder, and smelled burning flesh.
From behind him, the surviving Blackwell knights struggled to rally. Hooves clattered across churned earth, voices raw with terror.
"By the gods… what—what was that?!" one shouted, pointing shakily toward the enemy.
"It's… it's magic!" another cried, gripping his sword as if it could hold the impossible at bay. "There's a mage in their ranks! Lightning from the sky—by all the saints, it's not natural!"
The words spread through the remnants—five hundred of the seven thousand—panic igniting like wildfire. Even the bravest faltered, glancing skyward at the crackling clouds.
Lucian's eyes caught the enemy cavalry advancing, five thousand mercenaries from the Varkell left, slowly but steadily moving toward the shattered flank. His vision swam; smoke and lightning obscured everything. The Blackwell charge was broken, banners scorched, bodies strewn across the misty plain.
Harlan's accusation had been cut short by the chaos, but the captain's suspicion lingered—he still believed the little lord was trying to survive, staying behind deliberately while his house and family risked all.
Lucian hit the ground, ears ringing, chest pressed into mud and ash. The battlefield had become a nightmare of death and divine fury. The war had arrived in its truest form. And for Lucian, consciousness slipped away—the charge had already claimed him.