"Dangerous magic," Lannord observed with cold calculation.
"That boy was dangerous too," Stellan smirked. "Did you see how he handled Dieter? Had I not severed his arm first, I might have been consumed by those azure flames."
"He wasn't your target, though, was he?" Lannord kept his gaze fixed ahead.
"Every river needs its stepping stones." Stellan spurred his mount forward.
Lannord fell silent, then offered a silent prayer for the enemy captain's soul before following his companion.
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Carl still led the charge, though now he slumped in his saddle like a dead man.
His mind had begun its final inventory of life.
Steel met steel in a shower of sparks, but Stellan's edge found air first. The cloaked rider's sword descended in a killing arc, their proximity leaving Carl no choice but to block. The impact nearly unseated him, its inhuman force shocking through his arms. Such strength... inhuman... Carl watched his opponent as Stellan's blade swept up in a vicious slash. Though Carl blocked again, his arms screamed in protest, muscles refusing to obey. I can't match his blade... his strength is overwhelming. Carl's mind raced. I must attack or die.
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He guided his mount left, seeking space to strike. But the cloaked rider read his intent like an open book. Stellan's horse matched his movement precisely, denying him room to swing. Their blades met again and again, but Stellan's assault never wavered while Carl's right arm deadened to useless meat. In desperation, he swung wild and blind, hoping fate might favor him. Whether by luck or providence, though his blade found no flesh, it bought him a precious moment of respite. Saved! He gasped. In such moments, even the smallest reprieve felt like salvation.
Then he heard it.
The soft creak of drawing bowstring. Carl's blood froze as understanding dawned. He'd counted only one opponent—forgetting Lannord who waited behind Stellan.
The bowstring's song faded to silence.
Another set of hoofbeats approached.
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He had fallen to the rear. Neither engaging the cloaked riders nor aiding his arrow-marked companions.
Terror had claimed him. He could only kick his mount harder, urging impossible speed. Until his eye caught something.
Resolution crystallized.
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The bowstring fell still.
Carl's eyes closed. Action was pointless now—at this range, even a blind archer couldn't miss.
He embraced the coming darkness.
An arrow whistled past, and Carl turned to see it streak toward Stellan, poised to strike. The broad head shattered against armor as Stellan roared in fury, cursing his companion. The archer shouted back in defense. Seeing his chance, Carl put distance between himself and Stellan before seeking the archer's position. He understood now why the shot had gone wide—another knight rode beside the archer, shielding him.
"Simon of Elselar answers the call!" the knight proclaimed.