Date: June 19, 541 years since the Fall of Zanra the Dishonored.
The respite proved illusory. No sooner had the defenders of the Iron Gullet bandaged their first wounds than the horizon trembled again. Valtorn's gravitational pressure, balanced by Divilla's spatial distortions, created a zone of instability in the wall breach. The air here would become light and thin one moment, then suddenly acquire the density of lead the next.
Dur stood in the front line, feeling the energy of the Initiate (1st level) pulsing in his body. After the first clash, his reserves were depleted, but his Vessel continued to greedily absorb crumbs of power from the surrounding space. His regeneration, which in quality already corresponded to the Warrior level (2nd level), had almost erased the traces of small cuts on his thighs, but the deep fatigue was still there.
"The 'Pillars' are coming!" ran through the ranks of defenders, and in that cry, one could hear primal fear.
From the dusty haze emerged Alvost legionaries whose armor seemed like monolithic slabs. This was the elite—fighters of the Pillar level (3rd level). Their energy flowed powerfully and irresistibly, suppressing the will of those standing on lower rungs. Dur and Maël, being only Initiates, felt this pressure as a physical blow to their internal organs.
They were just part of the crowd. Dozens of such Initiates and Warriors huddled in the breach, their spears pointed outward. Dur didn't choose his opponent—a huge Pillar-level legionary appeared before him, blocking out the light. In his hands, the enemy clutched a massive battle hammer, on which gravitational runes glowed dully.
The difference was colossal. Dur's Initiate-level energy was but a timid spark compared to the roaring flame of the enemy Pillar. The legionary didn't even waste energy on feints. He simply brought the hammer down in a wide arc, seeking to crush everything in its path.
Dur barely had time to raise his left arm, strengthening his shoulder with all the available energy. It was hopeless. The gravitational seal on the hammer activated at the moment of contact, increasing the weapon's weight several times over.
A terrible crunch was heard. The young man's left shoulder and collarbone simply couldn't withstand the collision with 3rd-level power. The bone shattered, and Dur collapsed to his knee, his left arm hanging lifelessly, and blood gushed from the pierced armor.
The pain was so intense that the world became blindingly white for a moment. Dur saw the Pillar-level legionary already winding up for a second blow, utterly indifferent to the fate of a lowly Initiate. To him, Dur was just rubbish underfoot, an annoying obstacle on the way to the gate.
At that moment, Dur's body reacted on instinct. All the free energy rushed to the shattered shoulder. His regeneration began frantically "stitching together" the torn tissues and vessels. It wasn't a miracle—his arm remained a useless limp rope, but the pain shock began to recede, allowing Dur not to lose consciousness at the decisive moment.
Maël, fighting two steps away, saw his friend fall. His Spirit flared, and for a moment, Maël displayed speed and reaction almost corresponding to the Warrior level. He managed to interpose his sword under the legionary's hammer handle, deflecting the blow aside.
"Back!" Maël shouted, his face contorted with monstrous strain.
Dur, ignoring the agony in his shoulder, shifted his knife to his right hand and rolled behind the wall debris. They couldn't defeat this enemy. The difference between an Initiate and a Pillar was an insurmountable chasm. The legionary simply pushed Maël aside with his shield and switched to a more "interesting" target—an Agrim veteran of the Warrior level who had arrived at the breach.
Dur rose, pressing his mangled arm to his chest. The shoulder looked ugly, the bone broken, but his anomalous regeneration had already stopped the internal bleeding. A dense crust of dried blood bound the wound.
The bloody confusion continued around him. Hundreds of people died in the mud, not even favored with a glance from their commanders. Divilla and Valtorn—two 5th-level Adepts—fought in the heavens, oblivious to the death of soldiers beneath their feet.
Maël was breathing heavily, standing shoulder to shoulder with Dur. His strength was almost gone. "We... we can't do anything to them," he exhaled, watching the Alvost legionaries methodically push back the garrison.
"We can," Dur tightened his grip on the knife in his right hand. "We can stay alive."
His regeneration continued its invisible work, fusing tissues millimeter by millimeter. Dur felt the energy within him grow even denser from this ordeal. He was weak, he was part of the crowd, he couldn't defeat a Pillar. But he could stay on his feet where others had already turned into corpses.
The battle for the Iron Gullet was entering its most brutal phase. The breach was filling with bodies, and new, equally nameless and doomed Initiates took the place of the fallen. Dur looked at his trembling right-hand fingers. He had to survive. Not for glory, but for that oath that led him through this darkness.