Apollo sat in the dimly lit classroom, trying to focus on the lesson at hand. Hypatia, his esteemed teacher, had always been able to hold his attention with her vast knowledge and engaging teaching style. However, this new class was a different story.
His discomfort was palpable. Surrounding him were noble children, their gazes frequently darting in his direction. Apollo knew why. His gift, Sun-born, made him exceptionally striking, especially during the day when sunlight caressed his skin, causing it to shimmer with an almost ethereal glow. The radiance made him the focal point of the room, drawing eyes to him whether he wanted it or not.
He could feel the weight of their stares, their curiosity and admiration, making him shift uneasily in his seat. It was hard to concentrate on the intricacies of poison when he was acutely aware of every glance, every whisper directed at him. The attention, though well-meaning, felt like a burden, and it only intensified his struggle to learn.
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Pacificus's hut did not remain empty, despite his and Merina's journey to the Ever Resting Forest. Inside Pacificus's farm, three children, Demether, Iason and Hyankinthos, tended to the crops. Hyankinthos, strikingly beautiful and feminine in his delicate blouse, wore a serene smile as he worked. His presence was almost ethereal, a gentle contrast to the earthy surroundings. Beside him, Demether moved with practiced ease, her hands deftly handling the plants.
"Haya," Demether whispered, glancing around cautiously.
"Yes, sis?" Hyankinthos responded softly, not pausing in his task.
"How long is she going to stand there?" Demether asked, her eyes flicking towards a woman clad in the robes of Juno. The woman's plate armor gleamed dully in the sunlight, and her imposing presence cast a shadow over the garden.
"I'm sorry, sis," Hyankinthos replied. "Mother Augusta told me I can only leave when a guard is with me."
"Haya, she's with you even when you're taking a dump," Demether said, her voice tinged with frustration.
"I know, I know," Hyankinthos sighed, lowering his voice. "Keep your voice down. I don't think she likes me."
"I... I can actually feel that," Demether murmured, shivering slightly as she glanced at the stern guard.
While the two are tending to the farm. Iason was tending to the man eating plants, there was an unsettling smile on his face as he looks tends to its flowers.
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As night approached, Artemis hopped out of bed. She savored the meal lovingly cooked by her mother, Caecilia, who had always supported her unconditionally. Encouraged by her brother Apollo's openness, Artemis had decided to share her gifts and flaws. The woman who had adopted them both, smiling warmly, expressed her happiness at their growing trust.
Artemis's skill, Moon-Born, made her strongest during the night. With the moonlight bathing the world in its silver glow, she felt invigorated. She moved swiftly, beginning her nightly training. She ran laps around the town, pausing for prayers whenever she felt tired, drawing strength and focus from the quiet moments of reflection.
After her run, she practiced her bow. The targets, shrouded in darkness, were difficult to see for most, but not for Artemis. The moonlight illuminated them just enough for her keen eyes to spot, and she hit each one with ease, her arrows finding their marks effortlessly.
As she was practicing, something towards the horizon caught her attention. Lights—many of them—flickered in the distance. Intrigued and wary, she approached cautiously, her footsteps silent. When she reached the source of the lights, her face paled. There must have been thousands of them. The lights were campfires, and she saw tents and men in armor. They wielded an array of weapons: halberds, swords, bows, and crossbows. Griffins and armored alces, wingless hippogriffs, rested by the fires, their formidable presence adding to the menacing scene. Men in robes with giant hats roamed the camp, staffs in hand, their movements deliberate and authoritative..
Each tent bore a yellow banner emblazoned with a gryphon.
Seeing this, Artemis felt a surge of panic. Her heart raced as she turned and fled. She ran as fast as she could, her breath coming in quick, shallow gasps. Despite her fear, her mind remained clear—she needed to warn the guards. She sprinted through the night, driven by urgency and the desperate need to protect her home.
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"I see," said the man, his voice heavy with fatigue. His corpulent form seemed to sag under the weight of his deep-set, tired eyes, shadowed by dark rings. "I expected them to come, but not from that direction."
"Yes, my Lord," replied a woman in Juno's robes, her armor gleaming even in the dim light. "The forces of Lord Rowan have arrived from the west. A child reported their presence to the guards. We sent a patrol group to confirm it, and only one woman returned with confirmation."
The man sighed deeply, the sound filled with a sorrowful resolve. "Have funerary rites for the brave patrol group. I want them to have full honors."
"Thank you, my Lord."
"General Marcus," he called, his voice carrying the weight of authority as he addressed an old man clad in worn, battle-scarred armor.
"Yes, my Lord," the old man responded, stepping forward with a stiff but respectful bow.
"Prepare the militia. Get ready for a siege."
"Yes, my Lord."
The bells of war tolled, their sound echoing through the town with a chilling resonance. The fat noble made his way towards the armory, each step deliberate, the gravity of the situation pressing down on him. Servants bustled around him, fitting him into his golden armor, which was adorned with elaborate frills and sculpted symbols. The armor was a testament to his status, grandiose and beautiful, yet almost out of place in the impending chaos.
In the streets, panic spread like wildfire among the commoners. Mothers frantically hid their children in basements, their faces etched with fear. Women and older children hurriedly donned makeshift armor—layers of leather, fur, and thick clothing—anything that might offer some protection. Their weapons were crude: spears fashioned from kitchen knives tied to sticks, axes used for chopping wood, and hammers meant for nails and metalwork. Hunters clutched their bows with grim determination, while those with warrior kin took up their fathers' or husbands' swords, the steel cold and heavy in their hands.
Warrior monks raced to the town walls, their robes flapping in the wind as they unfurled banners of their faith, hoping to bolster the spirits of the defenders. Carpenters worked feverishly to reinforce the gates, the sound of hammers and saws a frantic symphony of preparation. The great wooden doors were braced with iron and additional timbers, a barrier meant to hold back the coming storm.
In the noble quarters, a different scene of urgency played out. The nobles rushed to their private armories, donning ornate armor inlaid with gold and silver, adorned with family crests and intricate designs. Their faces were pale but resolute, a mix of dread and duty as they prepared for the inevitable conflict.
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Apollo stood at the walls of the noble district, the fortifications here much sturdier and taller than those of the commoners. He hadn’t slept since his sister had woken him from his slumber, accompanied by the woman who had adopted him—or rather, his mother. The night's events left him worried about Artemis’s reaction. He couldn't tell if she was scared or excited.
Now, he stood at the battlements, wearing chainmail that clinked softly with every movement. Only the non-blessed children were excused from fighting, but Apollo, having received his blessing just a month or two ago, was required to fight on the frontlines, much to his dismay. He and Hyakinthos had spent the night on the walls, while Artemis stood guard beside one of the banners.
Their job was simple yet crucial: guard the walls and pour mana continuously into the banners to maintain their magical defenses.
The morning sun was rising, casting a golden glow over the town. It was Apollo's turn to keep watch. Behind him, a ballista was manned by warrior monks of Juno, their eyes scanning the horizon for any signs of the enemy. Even in these tense moments, the young girls couldn't help but steal glances at Apollo as the sunlight bathed him, highlighting his striking appearance. He was indeed very eye-catching during the day, earning him the nickname "Eye Candy Apollo."
Apollo gazed out over the horizon, his sharp eyes picking out the glint of spears and the silhouettes of gryphons and hippogriffs in the distance. He chuckled softly to himself when he noticed the enemy soldiers shielding their eyes as they marched towards the sunrise.
He yawned and turned to Hyakinthos. "Are the others okay?" he asked.
Hyakinthos, with his delicate features framed by the morning light, looked serious. "Most of our brothers and sisters are hiding under the orphanage. Some of them are staying at Big Brother Pacy's hut." He frowned, his worry evident. "I'm worried, Polo. What if they decide to go to Big Brother's hut? He’s not there to protect them."
Apollo's expression turned serious as well. "You’re right, Haya... we need to do something."
Apollo observed the enemy warriors making camp, his keen eyes taking in every detail. He watched as the soldiers cut trees, their movements cautious as they carefully avoided the borders of the Ever Resting Forest. To a normal person, this avoidance might seem like a simple strategic decision, but Apollo was different. During the day, his gift enhanced his eyesight, allowing him to notice things others couldn't.
He scanned the surroundings, noting the construction of siege engines, the soldiers working tirelessly to prepare for the assault. He watched their hunters spread out, foraging and hunting for food, living off the land. His worry deepened at the thought that these hunters might stumble upon Pacificus's hut if they wandered too far. Yet, he felt a measure of relief as he noticed their clear reluctance to venture near the Ever Resting Forest.
From his vantage point, he saw a hunter creeping too close to the gigantic trees of the forest. Suddenly, a massive bird-like creature, as large as a house, swooped down and snatched the hunter, disappearing into the dense foliage. The hunter's companions stood frozen in fear for a moment before fleeing, their terror palpable.
In another instance, Apollo saw a carpenter attempting to chop wood near the forest's edge. Without warning, the tree he aimed to cut came to life, revealing itself to be an angry treant. The creature swatted the carpenter away, sending him hurtling through the air to his death.
"To think Arty would like to hunt in that forest," Apollo sighed, shaking his head "Wait a minute... Arty," Apollo muttered under his breath, as an idea began to take shape in his mind.
Without wasting any time, he quickly made his way out of the noble's quarters, flanked by a sleepy Artemis and the ever-beautiful Hyakinthos. As they moved through the dimly lit streets, warrior monks of Juno frowned upon seeing them, hurling admonishments their way. But Apollo paid them no mind. He had a plan, and nothing was going to stop him from seeing it through.
"Arty, you should go back to sleep, you know," Hyakinthos said gently, concern lacing his voice.
"I don’t want to," Artemis replied, stifling a yawn. "I want to fight too, you know. Our siblings are in the commoner’s district."
They approached a nearby wall tower, its stone surface cold and rough beneath their hands as they climbed. At the top, a ballista was manned by children their own age, their faces serious and their eyes weary from the long night. The massive siege weapon loomed above them, its bolts glinting ominously in the morning light.
"Can we borrow that?" Apollo asked, pointing at the ballista.
"Sure," one of the kids answered with a shrug, stepping aside to let Apollo take a closer look.
"I wish we could hit them," another child muttered, gazing out at the enemy camp near the walls. "Their camp is just right there."
He pointed toward the enemy encampment, a sprawling mass of tents and flickering campfires. The enemy had chosen their location with care—far enough from the walls to avoid siege weapons and magic, but close enough to ensure that any attempt to flee the town would be futile.
"Can we shoot?" Apollo asked, his eyes narrowing as he studied the camp.
"You can," one of the kids replied hesitantly, "but I wouldn’t recommend it. They’re too far away."
Apollo's lips curled into a confident grin. He turned his gaze to Artemis and Hyakinthos, his mind racing with the possibilities. The sunlight filtered through the clouds, casting a golden hue over the landscape, and he felt the power of his gift surging within him. During the day, his strength was at its peak, and his vision was unmatched. He could see the enemy camp with perfect clarity, every detail etched into his mind.
He knew that with the right calculations and a little luck, they could make the shot. His grin widened as he grasped the ballista’s controls, feeling the tension in the ropes and the weight of the massive bolt. This wasn’t just a weapon; it was an extension of his power, a means to strike fear into the hearts of the enemy before the battle even began.
"Let’s see if we can’t give them something to think about," Apollo said, his voice steady with determination.
Artemis and Hyakinthos exchanged glances, their weariness momentarily forgotten as they caught the spark of excitement in Apollo's eyes. They nodded, stepping up beside him, ready to help.
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Apollo adjusted the angle of the ballista, his fingers moving with an almost unnatural precision as he calculated the distance and trajectory. The massive weapon creaked under the strain, its ropes taut, and its mechanisms ready to unleash destruction.
"This is going to hurt," Apollo muttered to himself, forcing a smile in an attempt to mask the nervousness that churned in his gut. His heart pounded in his chest, but he pushed the fear aside, knowing what he needed to do. Taking a deep breath, he called upon his gift—Solaris.
With the light from the sun and the power of his own soul, Apollo's eyes began to glow a brilliant gold. The radiant energy flowed through him, pulsing with the rhythm of his heartbeat, until it spilled out, enveloping the ballista and its massive bolt. The weapon seemed to hum with power, the wood and iron glowing faintly as if infused with the very essence of the sun.
But with that power came pain—searing, unbearable pain. Apollo screamed in agony as his flaw—the price of his gift—began to burn his soul. It felt like fire coursing through his veins, consuming him from within. His vision blurred, but he held on, gritting his teeth as he fought to keep control.
Seconds stretched into what felt like hours as he aimed the charging ballista, every moment dragging as the pain intensified. Sweat beaded on his forehead, his body trembling from the strain, but his resolve never wavered. He knew he had to make this shot count.
His target was clear: the most opulent, extravagant tent at the center of the enemy camp, adorned with banners and symbols that marked it as the command tent. It stood out like a beacon, a symbol of the enemy’s power and arrogance. If he could strike it down, it would send a message—a warning that they were not to be underestimated.
Apollo's vision sharpened, the world around him narrowing to a single point as he focused on the target. He could see every detail of the tent, from the fluttering banners to the armored figures moving around it. He adjusted his aim one final time, the pain almost unbearable now, but he refused to let it break him.
With a surge of willpower, he released the bolt. The ballista roared as it fired, the glowing bolt streaking through the air like a comet, trailing light and fire in its wake.
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A man dressed in brilliant gold armor sat at the center of his tent, surrounded by men clad in the most prestigious plate armor. His own armor was even more resplendent, a masterpiece of craftsmanship, but those before him were no less impressive, their armor gleaming with intricate designs and adorned with the surcoat of the gryphon—a symbol of their house.
"I want to get this siege over in a few days," he commanded, his voice authoritative and resolute. "We will adhere to the book of tactics: destroy the town and its walls with bombardment and magic, then we charge."
"My Lord, that strategy will take us months," a younger man in ornate armor protested, his voice tinged with frustration. "I say we strike them down using our numbers."
"You are underestimating the defenders," an older man interjected, his voice steady and experienced. "They may be women and children, but they are also blessed. Do not underestimate the blessings of the Gods, even if these blessed ones are non-combatants."
"These defenders are just farmers and craftsmen. We could take them easily. I say we strike at night and—"
Before he could finish, the world erupted into chaos. The men were flung high into the air, their surroundings tumbling into a dizzying maelstrom. They landed with bone-jarring thuds, their bodies crashing against the ground with a sickening impact. The man in gold struggled to breathe, a sharp, stabbing pain in his chest indicating that his ribs had likely pierced his lung.
His vision was a blur of fiery red and dark shadows. Through the haze, he saw the remains of what was once his tent: now a vast, gaping crater, smoldering with the remnants of a catastrophic explosion. The air was filled with the acrid smell of smoke and burning flesh. Knights scrambled through the wreckage, their armor charred and faces distorted, some barely recognizable as they tried to lift their wounded commanders.
The sounds around him were a chaotic symphony of distress. The blaring of bells pierced through the smoke, a frantic signal of the assault. Shouts of panic and commands filled the air, mixing with the crackling of flames.
"ENEMY ATTACK!"
"KEEP THAT SHIELD UP!"
"MOVE, MAGES, MOVE! WE MUST COUNTERATTACK!"
"NO! DON'T ATTACK! DO NOT AT—AGGGGGHHH!"
Another explosion shattered the relative calm, sending men and burning debris flying. Soldiers fled in every direction, their figures silhouetted against the raging fire. This time, the blast struck the rear of the camp, amplifying the chaos and confusion.
"MAGIC BOMBARDMENT!"
"HOLD THE BANNERS! STARS ABOVE, HOLD THOSE BANNERS!"
"MOVE AWAY FROM THE CAMP! MOVE AWAY FROM THE—GODS ABOVE!"
Yet another explosion rocked the camp, the force of it jarring and unrelenting. It was the final blow; the camp began to retreat, moving further from the walls as they scrambled to regroup and reassess their strategy.
The man in gold armor was lifted by his knights, who maneuvered through the chaos with grim determination. Their faces were set in steely resolve, even as the world around them fell apart. The man’s breath was labored, each inhale a struggle, but his knights remained calm and focused as they carried him away from the burning devastation, seeking refuge and safety amidst the turmoil.
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Apollo lay unconscious from the excruciating pain, his eyes rolled back into his head, his body convulsing uncontrollably. Hyakinthos cradled him gently, using his lap as a pillow, his hands trembling as he massaged Apollo's head, hoping to soothe his brother’s agony.
Artemis was beside them, her hands deftly crushing the herbs she kept in her pocket. She brought them to Apollo's nose, letting him inhale their potent scent, praying it would ease his suffering. Both siblings were worried sick, their hearts heavy with fear and concern. They knew all too well the agony of Apollo’s flaw, the unbearable pain that came with using his gift. Yet he had pushed himself not once, but thrice, each scream more harrowing than the last.
After what felt like an eternity, Apollo stirred. His eyes fluttered open, and he blinked up at the anxious faces of Hyakinthos and Artemis.
"Wha-what happened?" he croaked, his voice weak and raspy.
Artemis glanced toward the enemy camp, where soldiers were still in disarray, running away in panic. "I don’t know how you managed to withstand such pain, brother, but you did it. You sent them running."
"Did they run away from the town?" Apollo asked, trying to sit up but wincing from the lingering pain.
"They are digging a trench near the—"
"Then my job isn’t done," Apollo interrupted, determination flickering in his eyes. "I could still do one more—"
"NO!" Hyakinthos and Artemis cried in unison, their voices filled with alarm.
"I don’t want to hear you scream like that again, Polo," Hyakinthos said, his eyes glistening with worry. He gripped Apollo's hand tightly, his fingers trembling.
"Same here, brother," Artemis added, her voice soft but firm. "I don’t want to see you in pain again."
Apollo looked at his siblings, seeing the fear and concern etched on their faces. His heart ached, not just from the physical pain but from the realization of how much he had scared them. He reached out, his hand trembling, and grasped theirs.
"I’m sorry," he whispered, his voice barely audible. "I just wanted to protect you all."
"We know," Hyakinthos answered, his voice soft and understanding.
A voice from behind them broke the tense silence. "Woah," exclaimed one of the children still watching the burning camp and retreating forces. "Did you just destroy them?" he asked the trio with a smile, his eyes wide with admiration and awe.
Apollo managed a weak smile. "I guess?" he replied, feeling a mixture of pride and exhaustion. "Keep this secret, okay?"
"Our lips are sealed, my friend," the kids replied, grinning widely. They looked at Apollo with newfound respect, their eyes shining with the thrill of witnessing something extraordinary.
With a collective sigh of relief, Apollo, Hyakinthos, and Artemis began to move away from the tower wall. Apollo leaned heavily on Hyakinthos, his body still weak and aching from the exertion. Artemis stayed close, her sharp eyes scanning their surroundings, vigilant against any unwelcome attention. The bond between them felt stronger now, a silent understanding that they would protect each other, no matter the cost.
They spent the rest of the day near the walls of the noble's district, each in their own quiet way dealing with the aftermath of the morning's events. Artemis, exhausted from the night and the stress of Apollo's ordeal, curled up in a quiet corner and drifted into a deep, dreamless sleep. Hyakinthos, ever the nurturing presence, made sure they had something to eat, though his thoughts were never far from Apollo. He kept glancing over, worry etched on his delicate features.
Apollo, still recovering, sat in the shade, his gaze fixed on the enemy camp in the distance. He watched as the invaders toiled away, digging their trench with grim determination. His mind was already working on the next step, calculating the best moment to strike again. But he knew he couldn't push himself too soon. Not today. Maybe tonight, under the cover of darkness, when his sister’s power was at its peak, and his own body had a chance to rest.
Meanwhile, in the noble's district, tension rippled through the ranks of the defenders. An old man, his weathered face framed by the brilliant armor he wore beneath the red scapular of Mars, stormed through the streets. His eyes were sharp with anger and confusion. "Who?... Who fired that magic?" he demanded, his voice carrying an authority that brooked no argument. "I demand to see the mage that cast that spell!"
His words echoed through the courtyard, drawing the attention of soldiers and servants alike. They whispered among themselves, exchanging puzzled glances. None could answer him, for no one knew the identity of the mysterious mage who had unleashed such devastating power.
Nearby, a fat noble stood watching the retreat of the enemy forces, a pleased smile playing on his lips. His corpulent form was adorned with layers of rich fabrics, his fingers heavy with rings. He observed the chaos in the enemy camp with a mixture of amusement and curiosity. The siege wasn’t over—not by a long shot—but this unexpected turn of events had shifted the balance in their favor, at least for now.
The noble chuckled to himself, a low, rumbling sound. He knew luck had played a hand in this, that the enemy had been caught off guard by the sudden and precise attack. Even he, a man who prided himself on knowing everything that happened within his domain, was unaware that such a powerful mage resided among his people. The thought both intrigued and delighted him.
As the fat noble turned away from the walls, his mind was already working on how to capitalize on this newfound advantage. Perhaps he would find this mysterious mage, reward them handsomely, and ensure their loyalty. Or perhaps it was better to leave such a force in the shadows, a hidden ace that could be played when the time was right.
For now, though, he would allow himself a moment of satisfaction. The sight of the enemy's retreat was a balm to his soul, a sign that perhaps, just perhaps, they might survive this siege after all.
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That night, the three misfits moved like shadows beneath the veil of darkness. Artemis landed with the grace of a falling leaf, her steps so light that even the grass beneath her feet remained undisturbed. Apollo, too weak to jump, was cradled in Hyakinthos’s arms, carried in a lover's embrace as they descended from the wall. They descended from the wall together, Hyakinthos’s strong legs absorbing the impact as they touched down. In the stillness of the night, their breaths were the only sound, each one careful and measured.
Their destination was the enemy camp, a shadowy maze of tents and trenches. They moved with silent precision, Artemis leading the way. The moons hung low in the sky, casting a pale light over the landscape, but the night remained thick with darkness, cloaking their movements. They kept to the edges, avoiding the heart of the camp where watchful eyes might catch a glimpse of movement.
Even with the scant light, Artemis navigated the terrain effortlessly, her senses heightened by the night. The trio didn’t dare venture too deep into enemy territory; they were acutely aware of the danger. One misstep, one sound, and they would be exposed. But Artemis was undeterred—she thrived in the darkness, where others faltered.
"Sis, aren’t you too far away to draw your bow?" Apollo whispered, his voice barely audible, tinged with concern.
Artemis turned her head slightly, a small, confident smile playing on her lips. "I’m close enough," she replied, her tone steady and assured. Drawing upon her gift, Lunaris, she began to channel the mana within her soul, weaving it together with the soft, silvery light of the stars and moons that hung overhead. The energy flowed into her bow, filling it with a quiet power that pulsed like a heartbeat.
She held her breath, concentrating the gathered power into the arrow she had nocked. The air around her seemed to shimmer as she focused, the arrow glowing faintly with a subdued light. She was careful, keeping the glow dim, not wanting to reveal their position to the enemy watch.
"Sis, wait until the mage lets go of the banner," Apollo cautioned, his voice urgent but calm. "Those banners are Aegis shields—no projectile or magic can pierce them... unless you’ve got enough power to destroy it."
"I know," Artemis whispered back, her eyes narrowing as she scanned the trenches below. "But where should I aim? They’re all in the ditches."
"Anywhere, sis. Just remind them that they shouldn’t sleep," Apollo whispered, his voice carrying a grim determination.
A cold smile touched Artemis’s lips. "Oh, they won’t be sleeping anytime soon," she murmured.
She raised her bow, her movements smooth and precise, her form steady as a statue. The bowstring stretched taut, humming with the concentrated energy it held. Her breath was slow and controlled, her heartbeat steady as she aimed at the distant trenches. She could feel the power coursing through her, the energy of the stars and moons melding with her own, amplifying her strength.
Then, with a sudden, fluid motion, she released the arrow.
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Deep within the trenches, a man clad in golden armor staggered forward, the emblem of the gryphon on his tattered yellow surcoat barely visible beneath the grime and blood. His armor, once gleaming with the promise of invincibility, now bore the scars of battle, dented and scorched, yet it had saved him from certain death. The weight of his helmet pressed heavily on his head, but he kept it on, aware that another dishonorable strike in the dark could end him if he wasn’t careful.
He trudged through the narrow trench, his boots sinking into the ground. The air was thick with tension, the once bustling camp now eerily quiet, save for the muted murmurs of his men. They were all on edge, their eyes wide with fear and exhaustion. The banners hung limp in the night air, their magic straining under the constant demand. These Aegis shields were their only defense, powerful enough to nullify magic and deflect projectiles, yet they drained the mages who sustained them, their faces pale and drawn from the exertion.
As he inspected his troops, the man in golden armor could see the toll the unexpected attack had taken. The soldiers were demoralized, their spirits crushed by the sheer force of the magical bombardment. Despite their desire for vengeance, the fear was palpable. They all bore the marks of the earlier assault—burns, cuts, and bruises—reminders of how close they had come to death. The acrid stench of burnt flesh still lingered in the air, mingling with the scent of charred wood and metal.
The man’s gaze shifted to the ruined tents where their food supplies had been stored. What little remained was scattered, useless. The destruction of their provisions was a devastating blow, leaving the men anxious about the days ahead. He sighed heavily, the sound muffled by his helmet. He could feel the weight of responsibility pressing down on him, the knowledge that his men were relying on him to lead them through this nightmare.
His attention was drawn to the mages, who were exchanging one of the banners. The Aegis shield flickered momentarily as the mage released their hold, another stepping in to take their place. In that fleeting moment, the air crackled with tension, as if the very night itself was holding its breath.
And then, without warning, the world exploded.
A searing light erupted from the trenches, brighter and more violent than anything they had experienced before. It was as if a moon had been born right in the midst of their camp, its light consuming everything in its path. The explosion was deafening, a concussive force that ripped through the air, sending men and debris flying. There was no time to react, no time to scream. One moment they stood ready, the next they were thrown like ragdolls, their bodies caught in the blast.
Wooden supports shattered into deadly shrapnel, the fragments whistling through the air like arrows, tearing through flesh and armor with terrifying ease. One splinter, sharp as a dagger, pierced the banner of an active Aegis shield, shattering it in an instant. The once mighty barrier fell, leaving the men exposed to the full fury of the magical assault. The trench, which had offered some semblance of protection, was now a crater, a gaping wound in the earth filled with the remnants of what had once been a camp.
The man in golden armor found himself lying on the ground, his body numb, his mind reeling. The impact had left him dazed, his vision a blur of shapes and shadows. The ringing in his ears drowned out all other sounds, and for a moment, he thought he was back in the heat of the earlier attack. But this was different—this was worse. He tried to breathe, but the air caught in his throat, the pain radiating from his chest unbearable. The damage to his armor was severe, the once protective shell now a prison that made every breath an agony.
Around him, chaos reigned. Those who had escaped the worst of the blast were in a state of panic, their voices rising in a cacophony of fear and confusion.
"ENEMY ATTACK!" a soldier screamed, his voice cracking with terror.
"MAGICAL BOMBARDMENT!" another shouted, his eyes wide with disbelief.
"WHAT HAPPENED TO OUR BANNERS?" a third cried out, frantically searching for the fallen shields.
"THE MAGIC PIERCED THROUGH IT!" a mage stammered, his hands trembling as he tried to summon another barrier.
"GODS HELP US!" came the desperate plea of a wounded man, his voice hoarse and broken.
"WE'VE GOT WOUNDED—SEND SOME AID!" a knight bellowed, his face pale as he surveyed the devastation.
The man in golden armor tried to push himself up, but his body refused to obey, the pain too overwhelming. All he could do was lie there, his breath shallow, as the world around him descended into madness.