Novia leaned against the cold stone wall, panting heavily, his eyes filled with sorrow and exhaustion. The orcs had attacked relentlessly—more than a dozen waves—and yet, despite their best efforts, the defenders of Los Saint-Neil had barely scratched the enemy’s numbers. The Star Elves had shot down the Orc Vanguard, but the bulk of the half-orcs had cleverly feigned retreat, keeping their casualties low.

"What about King James?" Novia asked, turning to a nearby guard.

The guard hesitated before answering, "Not good, Your Highness. Their knights are taking heavy casualties..." He trailed off, his face grim. Even the noble knights were bleeding on the battlefield, and the common soldiers were faring even worse.

Novia clenched his jaw. "What about our own forces?"

"Your Highness... our soldiers are exhausted. They can barely draw their bows. One more attack and they might collapse."

Novia exhaled slowly. He knew Azog, the enemy commander, was cunning. The half-orcs weren’t just attacking—they were wearing down the elves' stamina and morale, waiting for the right moment to strike a killing blow. One slip, one moment of weakness, and their feigned assaults would turn deadly real.

"Do you need me to intervene?" Peter Gro, one of Novia’s trusted commanders, asked as they both glanced at the west wall, where Carlos was struggling to fend off yet another wave of attackers.

"Not yet," Novia replied. "We can’t reveal our trump card until we’re certain it will make a difference. We can't trade our best for a mere gamble."

Novia’s eyes darkened. The battlefield was a delicate balance of attrition and strategy—he couldn’t afford to lose it now.

"Prepare for melee combat!" Novia commanded, his voice steel, as he steeled himself for what was to come.

Peter flinched at the order, knowing full well that elves were not famed for their melee prowess. But Novia shot him a look that cut through any hesitation.

"People say elves are weak in close combat..." Novia muttered, surveying the warriors around him, many still wielding their fine mail and chain armor, some trembling from fatigue. "But how did we win the Last Alliance War if that were true? We just don't like to sacrifice unless absolutely necessary."

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Peter shut his eyes in pain, knowing the truth of his words. The elves had learned the cost of war during the Battle of the Black Gate, where they had faced a nightmare they never wished to relive.

"Your Highness, I won’t leave you," Peter finally said, his voice unwavering. "We didn’t betray our allies then, and we won’t betray them now."

Novia nodded solemnly. "Good. Let’s give them everything we’ve got."

Peter Gros knelt on one knee, drawing his sword. "My blade is yours, my king. My body and soul will fight until the very end!"

Novia’s eyes softened, just for a moment, as he rested a hand on the knight’s shoulder. "Stand tall, Knight. We need you now more than ever."

With a smooth motion, Novia unsheathed his curved elven blade, its edge glinting under the morning sun. He raised it high.

"For our ancestors! For our homeland! For the people of Singhry, we will never surrender!"

"Kill!"

A fresh volley of arrows rained down from behind them, but Novia could already feel the weight of the oncoming horde.

---

Meanwhile, at Rapid City, Roland stood before his advisors, the grim reality of war sinking in.

"Have you made up your mind?" Lord Lance asked him, though the answer was already clear.

"Yes," Roland said firmly. "Our allies are fighting for their lives. If we let them fall, we’re next."

Lance bowed his head, the weight of the king’s words heavy on his shoulders. "Then go. Fight with everything you have. I swear on my life that I will protect Rapid City until you return, whether you succeed or not."

Marcus, the City Defense Officer, stepped forward. "And I, too, will hold this city for you, my lord."

Roland looked at his men, pride swelling in his chest. "What do you need to defend the city, Marcus?"

"We’ll need the Dovinian heavy swordsmen, the Lagrand city guards, Batenian archers, and the light infantry we’ve conscripted. But we’re short on manpower. In open battle, they’ll be difficult to command."

Lord Lance slammed his fist against his chest. "As a noble of Lagrand, I will lead my troops and clear every obstacle in your path. Only death can end my promise."

"May the Light guide you," Roland said, nodding gravely.

"Reynold, gather the knights and prepare Ladir and Ivy," Roland commanded. "We’ll need their magic for this."

Armored and ready for battle, Roland mounted his warhorse and rode to the west gate, where his army began to assemble. The river to the west had frozen over from the northern cold winds, creating a natural bridge for the orcs to invade. Rapid City was vulnerable.

Roland stared out at the ice-covered horizon, the tension thick in the air. He knew waiting for the orcs to reach them was a mistake. They had to strike first. The time for defense was over—it was time for action.

---

Back at Los Saint-Neil, Novia exhaled, exhaustion taking hold. He had just fired his first arrow at the orcs, a shot that was meant to hit an orc’s eye but had missed and grazed its neck. His hands trembled.

"Roland... I don’t think I can hold them any longer..." he whispered to himself.

"Your Highness! The orcs are charging again!" a ranger shouted.

"Can any of you still draw a bow?" Novia asked, already knowing the answer.

"We will fight until the last moment!" The elf archers and rangers, arms trembling, drew their blades. They had no strength left for ranged combat, but their loyalty was unquestionable.

"Then prepare for melee!" Novia roared, his own anger rising. The orcs had pushed them too far, and now it was time to show them what the elves were truly capable of.

The orcs stormed the walls, their crude ladders propped against the stone battlements. They thought victory was within their grasp.

"For the dignity of our people!" Novia yelled, charging at the first orc to climb over the wall. With a swift arc of his blade, he decapitated the beast, blood spraying across the stones.

His warriors followed suit, their swords dancing like silver flames under the pale dawn light.

The battle raged on, but the elves of Singhry would not yield—not today.