They pursued them relentlessly, their encircling net drawing ever tighter until Carl and his men were trapped like prey. Those few who had slipped through the hunters' grasp now lay as silent testimony on the battlefield.
"The one leading the charge appears to be their commander," Lannord observed coolly.
"Then we should bring him down," Stellan laughed, spurring his horse forward with predatory eagerness.
Lannord shook his head in resignation before following his companion.
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If this night's ambush birthed any heroes, Corslin, the "Troll Boy," would be counted among them. By then, Carl, son of Cornell, had surrendered to despair. His thoughts dwelt only on his young daughter and his tireless wife. He wondered how Emperor Godma's blood-bought coins would reach them, how that crimson-stained gold might ease their lives. He wondered if his corpse would return whole to his homeland, to rest beside his father in the family crypt, another warrior fallen in battle.
He wondered when death would claim him.
Corslin had other plans. He pulled his reins, guiding his red-bay horse rightward. "What are you doing?!" Carl's voice cracked with fear, dreading that Corslin too had broken, ready to charge through the deadly circle of riders to his doom.
But that wasn't Corslin's intent. He calmly approached one of the cloaked riders, who noticed this uninvited guest. Firelight revealed the cloaks not as black, but a deep, unsettling green. Such details meant nothing now. His target was singular: the torch in the rider's grip.
Drawing the slender signal torch, Corslin struck at the rider. The veteran warrior leaned back and left, barely evading the attack. Regaining his seat, he reached for his sword.
You won't draw that blade, Corslin thought grimly, because you'll need both hands.
His mount slammed into the rider's horse, forcing the man to grab his reins for balance. Corslin's torch lashed out, the blow landing where armor didn't protect. Chainmail rang against torch-shaft as the rider howled. Realizing his sword was beyond reach, the rider resorted to basic instinct: counter-attacking with his torch.
You could be reading stolen content. Head to Royal Road for the genuine story.
Perfect. Victory flickered in Corslin's eyes. The rider had played directly into his hands. Come on!
The rider's torch swept down from above left. Corslin met it with perfect timing - but instead of clashing, both weapons cut empty air. As the rider prepared another strike, Corslin hung precariously from his saddle, unable to block.
He didn't need to. In that lightning exchange, bright yellow flame had found its mark.
A geyser of blue fire erupted into the night. Azure radiance banished darkness and moonlight alike, illuminating the earth below. Ghost-like butterflies traced graceful arcs through the night sky.
As if no amount of battle-churned dust could touch their ethereal dance.
Their essence remained forever pure, untouched by earthly grime.
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"Captain, look there." Ryder pointed across the river. "Was that a flash of blue light?"
"Sharp eyes you have," Eoch narrowed his gaze thoughtfully. "Indeed. Blue flashes... and more than one."
"Perhaps they miss those beautiful flames, yearning to see them dance again?" Ryder drifted into wistful memory, expression dreamy.
The knight captain briefly shared the sentiment before reality struck hard.
"Fool!" His gauntlet rang against Ryder's helm. "They're under attack! Send reinforcements, you idiot!"
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Never had Carl felt prouder of Corslin - not even during his masterful troll performance. Glancing over distant fields, he saw more blue flames spark and die. Shouts echoed from those directions - other units had found their own ambushes.
As had they.
"Corslin!" Carl called excitedly, steering toward him. "I did it!" Corslin jubilantly kicked his horse away from the cursing torch-bearer. After struggling upright in his saddle, he turned toward Carl's voice. But Carl wasn't what he saw.
Another cloaked rider rode beside him. Corslin reached for steel - too slowly. The rider's blade moved with impossible speed, severing Corslin's right hand before he could react. Hand and signal torch vanished into swirling dust lit by azure flame. Instinctively, Corslin grabbed his saddle with his remaining hand, fighting for balance. But before pain could register, black droplets danced before his eyes - his throat opened in a second, silent mouth. The "Troll Boy" could only clutch at the wound with his left hand, trying to hold in his lifeblood. Then he tumbled from his saddle, falling into eternal darkness with the fading blue flames.
Carl wanted to scream Corslin's name. But his voice failed, producing only silent terror. As squad leader, as a knight, he should have drawn steel, should have charged the enemy carrying Corslin's death-rage, should have claimed vengeance. But he couldn't. His hands held only fear. Madness clawed at his mind, bringing not clarity but deeper terror.
The butterflies continued their eternal dance.