CHAPTER 64
The battlefield outside the Grotto was a chaotic maelstrom of noise and violence. The shrieks of dark fiends pierced the air, mingling with the cries of the wounded and the relentless clash of steel on flesh. Katalina Reeve stood atop a jagged outcropping on the northern front, her emerald cloak whipping in the wind. Below her, the high ground her forces held was awash in blood, the rocky terrain slick with the remnants of countless battles.
Her heavy infantry, once unshakable, now looked strained, their shields splintered and armor dented. The mages, moved into staggered formations, hurled spells with low mana pools as the unending tide of fiends pressed closer. Katalina clenched her jaw, her knuckles white around her staff. “We’re losing ground,” she muttered to her adjutant, who stood at her side, his face pale but resolute.
“The second line has been breached, Milady,” he reported grimly. “The heavy infantry are barely holding.”
Katalina’s sharp eyes swept over the battlefield, taking in the disarray. Her forces were stretched too thin, their cohesion unraveling. If the dark fiends broke through, the northern flank would collapse entirely, and the Royal Army would be overrun. For a moment, doubt flickered in her mind. Was she leading her people to their deaths?
Then, a memory surfaced—her father, Count Emile Reeve, standing tall in his armor, his eyes full of quiet determination. “A leader’s resolve must never falter,” he had told her during one of their many lessons. “Even when the odds are against you, your strength can be the shield your soldiers need. Stand firm, Katalina. A true leader’s will is stronger than adamantium.”
“Father… I… I… can’t.”
“Kat, don’t say that. Our people look to you for guidance.”
“I’m not Arlan… Our soldiers are still dying under my command.”
“But here and now he needs you more than ever, and… You best remember that you’re still a Reeve. One of the strongest at that!”
“I… miss you and I love you, father!”
“I love you too, Kat. Now turn to your men and make me damn proud.”
His words steadied her, and she straightened, determination burning in her emerald eyes. “We’re not finished yet,” she said aloud, her voice cutting through the chaos.
Turning to her officers, she barked orders with renewed authority. “Pull the first line and second line back to the central ridge! Send ALL reserves to reinforce the left flank—no more gaps! Mages, rotate in staggered pairs! I want every spell to count!”
Her officers snapped to attention, their morale bolstered by her unyielding presence. They relayed her commands swiftly, and the troops began to shift, their movements gaining purpose and precision. Slowly, the chaotic retreat transformed into a measured fallback.
Katalina adjusted her heavy infantry’s formation, ordering her pikemen to form a dense, overlapping wall near the ridge. Behind them, the staggered mages unleashed coordinated bursts of fire, lightning, and ice, their spells cutting swathes through the enemy ranks. The fiends, unable to exploit weaknesses, began to falter.
The frontline began to stabilize, but the cost was staggering. Katalina glanced down at the battlefield, where hundreds of bodies lay strewn—friends, comrades, and nameless soldiers who had given their lives for Midland. Her adjutant hesitated before speaking, his voice heavy. “We estimate 1,300 men, milady… They’re gone.”
Katalina’s gaze hardened as she gripped her staff tighter. “I know,” she said quietly, her voice tinged with grief but resolute. “We can’t afford to lose or their sacrifice will be in vain.”
As the fiends regrouped for another wave, Katalina turned her gaze to the distant Iron Grotto’s jagged maw. Her thoughts drifted to Arlan and his strike team, battling somewhere within the darkness.
She closed her eyes briefly, as if speaking to him through the void. “Arlan,” she whispered, her voice steady despite the chaos around her. “Please end this as fast as you can… Or we’ll all die out here.”
The fiends screeched, charging again, but Katalina raised her staff, her voice ringing out over the battlefield. “Hold the line! For Midland!” Her soldiers roared in response, their resolve renewed as they braced for the next onslaught.
The battle raged on, but Katalina stood unyielding, a beacon of strength amidst the chaos. She would not falter. Not yet. Not while the Reeve Banners still needed her.
The command post at the rear of the battlefield was a grim haven of activity. Wounded soldiers were carried in on stretchers, their cries mingling with the barked orders of medics and officers struggling to keep order. Amid the chaos, Dink Rorschach was laid on a bloodstained cot, his armor dented and his tunic soaked through with crimson.
Blood seeped from the bandages hastily wrapped around his chest, and his breathing was shallow, each exhale a rasping struggle. The Prime Minister of Midland, the man who had stood unyielding at the Royal Army’s center, was now fighting a battle against his own body.
A group of adjutants and officers clustered nearby, their faces tense with uncertainty. Their eyes darted between the battlefield reports piling up and the unconscious figure of Dink, their leader and guide. Whispers passed between them, growing louder as they debated the next course of action.
Princess Emmeline stood apart from the group, her hands clasped tightly as she watched the scene unfold. Her blue cloak, though clean compared to the mud-streaked armor around her, felt heavier than ever. Her gaze was fixed on Dink, the weight of his injuries pressing against her chest like a vice.
Suddenly, Dink stirred, his hand twitching weakly at his side. One of the medics leaned closer, murmuring reassurances, but Dink’s gaze shifted past them, his unfocused eyes finding Emmeline.
“Princess…” he rasped, his voice barely audible. The room quieted as everyone turned to look at him. Summoning what little strength he had, he lifted his head slightly, his face lined with pain but resolute. “You remind me of him…”
Emmeline stepped closer, her heart pounding. “Of who?” she asked, her voice soft yet steady.
“Your father…” Dink whispered, his breath hitching. “King Richard… He had the same fire in his eyes, the same way of… seeing what others couldn’t. He would’ve been proud…”
The weight of his words settled on Emmeline’s shoulders like an avalanche. Her father’s legacy loomed large in her life, but hearing it spoken aloud in this moment of crisis stirred something deep within her. She knelt beside Dink, her hands trembling as she rested them lightly on his arm.
“Dink,” she began, her voice faltering before she steadied herself. “What would you have me do?”
Dink’s lips curled into a faint, tired smile. “Lead the Royal Army in my stead… You don’t need me to tell you how… You’ve always had it, Princess.” His gaze shifted to the group of adjutants who stood nearby, watching intently. “They’re waiting...”
His head fell back against the cot, his strength spent. The medics moved quickly, checking his vitals, but Dink had slipped into unconsciousness. Yet his words lingered, a challenge and a call to action.
Emmeline rose to her feet, turning to face the officers and adjutants. Their eyes were on her now, searching, expectant. She drew in a deep breath, the nervous energy in her chest giving way to a sense of clarity. It was as if the fog of uncertainty that had clouded her mind had suddenly lifted.
Emmeline had always accepted her role and her duty. She knew that more soldiers would die without some kind of leadership and she was the future Queen of Midland, she had to rise up to the occasion. The Midland Princess meditated for a moment, recalling all the information she had been listening to in the last ten minutes of reports.
“Reinforce the center!” she ordered, her voice ringing with unexpected authority. “Send the 7th and 10th Infantry Battalions to the northern ridge to hold the line. Prioritize clerics on the right flank—Our south unit won’t last without support!”
The officers hesitated for only a moment before saluting and rushing to carry out her orders. Her words carried weight, her commands precise and assured. The command post buzzed with renewed energy as the soldiers moved to execute her plan.
Emmeline stood in the center of the activity, her mind racing but her expression calm. She could feel the eyes of the soldiers on her, and for the first time, she didn’t shy away. This was her army now, and she would not let them fall.
As the chaos continued around her, Emmeline glanced back at Dink’s still form. “Rest, Dink,” she murmured, her voice soft but resolute. “I’ll take it from here.”
With her words came a sense of conviction. She wasn’t just King Richard’s daughter—she was a leader in her own right. Her actions caused an important ripple, a ripple that would give the coalition a fighting chance.
On the northern front of the battlefield, Yozac Grayshaper stood amidst the chaos, his dual warhammers glinting in the dim light of the battlefield. The ground beneath him was littered with the bodies of dark fiends and fallen adventurers alike, the acrid smell of ichor mingling with the metallic tang of blood. His grizzled face, smeared with dirt and sweat, twisted into a grimace as he surveyed the lines.
The adventurers under his command—a ragtag mix of knights, mages, rogues, and barbarians—were holding their ground, but barely. Their formations, if they could even be called that, were fracturing under the relentless waves of fiends. The southern flank teetered on the brink of collapse.
A thunderous roar from the center of the battlefield drew Yozac’s attention. He turned to see the Royal Army’s lines, previously faltering, beginning to stabilize. The soldiers moved with renewed purpose, executing precise maneuvers that forced the fiends back step by step. Banners rippled in the air, and the once-dispirited cries of the infantry had turned into defiant shouts.
“About bloody time,” Yozac muttered, a glint of approval in his eyes. A runner then arrived and informed Yozac of Princess Emmeline taking over command of the Royal Army.
The shift in momentum wasn’t lost on him. “Looks like the Princess is steppin’ up,” he said, his gruff voice tinged with admiration. “Fine. If she’s holdin’ the center, then we’ll give her somethin’ worth holdin’ onto.”
He raised his warhammers high, the runes etched into their surfaces glowing faintly as he channeled his mana. “Adventurers!” he bellowed, his voice booming across the southern lines. “Enough playin’ defense! It’s time we hit these bastards back where it hurts!”
A nearby rogue, her twin daggers dripping with black ichor, glanced up at him, her eyes narrowing with skepticism. “And how do you suggest we do that, Master Yozac? We’re barely holding on!”
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Yozac grinned, baring his teeth. “By doin’ what we do best, lass. We fight dirty.” He gestured toward the weakened left flank of the fiends’ formation. “They’re overcommittin’ to break us here. If we punch through their flank, we’ll scatter the whole bloody lot of ‘em.”
The rogue exchanged a glance with a nearby knight, who gave a firm nod. Around them, the adventurers began to gather, their exhaustion tempered by Yozac’s unshakable resolve.
“Rogues and rangers!” Yozac barked, pointing toward the flanking position. “Circle around and cut through their crawlers. Keep the big ones off our backs.”
He turned to the mages, who were clustered behind the front line. “You lot! Channel every last ounce of mana into somethin’ big and flashy. Make those fiends regret crawlin’ outta their holes.”
Finally, his gaze swept over the barbarians and knights. “The rest of you, with me. We’re takin’ the fight to their bloody faces. No holdin’ back!”
A cheer rose from the adventurers, their spirits lifting as Yozac’s plan took shape. The rogues and rangers darted toward the edges of the battlefield, their movements quick and precise as they began harassing the fiends’ flank. Mages raised their staves, chanting in unison as they prepared a devastating volley of spells.
Yozac led the charge at the center, his warhammers glowing brighter as he activated [Stone Bastion], surrounding himself with a shimmering barrier of earthen energy. His strikes were devastating, each blow crushing fiends into the ground with bone-shattering force.
“Come on, you ugly bastards!” Yozac roared, swinging his hammers in wide arcs. “[Earthen Rupture]!” He slammed both hammers into the ground, sending a wave of jagged stone spikes surging through the enemy ranks. The fiends screamed as they were impaled, their formation buckling under the assault.
Behind him, the knights and barbarians surged forward, their weapons cutting through the disorganized fiends with brutal efficiency. The mages unleashed their spells—a barrage of fireballs, lightning bolts, and icy shards that tore through the enemy lines, leaving devastation in their wake.
The counterattack was relentless. The fiends, caught off guard by the sudden aggression, began to falter. Yozac pressed the advantage, his booming voice rallying the adventurers as they drove the enemy back toward the center.
“Keep pushin’!” he shouted, his warhammers a blur of motion. “We’ve got ‘em on the run!”
As the fiends’ formation crumbled, Yozac cast a glance toward the Royal Army’s center. He could see the banners of Midland still standing tall, their soldiers fighting with renewed vigor. A grin spread across his face, feral and satisfied.
“Looks like we’re not done yet,” he muttered to himself, raising his hammers for another strike. The adventurers surged forward, their counterattack turning the tide of the battle on the southern flank. For now, the line would hold.
On the right flank of the battlefield, the crimson-and-gold banners of Duke Lansley’s forces stood tall, defiant against the unrelenting tide of dark fiends. The enemy surged forward in waves, their grotesque forms clawing and screeching as they hurled themselves at the disciplined lines of pikemen and mounted knights.
Duke Frank Lansley rode along the rear of the formation, his polished armor glinting faintly in the dim, chaotic light of the battlefield. His destrier, a massive warhorse clad in plate barding, snorted impatiently beneath him, sensing the tension in the air.
Lansley’s piercing gaze swept over his troops, his sharp eyes missing nothing. He noted every weakness in their lines, every point where the fiends threatened to break through, and every soldier whose morale began to waver.
“Steady your pikes!” Lansley’s commanding voice cut through the cacophony of battle like a blade. “Hold the line! Let them come and break themselves upon your steel!”
The pikemen braced themselves, their long spears forming an unbroken wall of deadly points. The first wave of fiends crashed against them, snarling and clawing, only to be impaled and pushed back. The soldiers grunted with effort, their shields interlocked to absorb the force of the attack.
From the rear, Lansley’s mounted knights surged forward, their lances gleaming as they struck with precision, cutting through the fiends that attempted to flank the pikemen. The knights’ charge was swift and devastating, leaving a trail of broken bodies in their wake before they wheeled around to prepare for another pass.
“Reform ranks!” Lansley bellowed, his destrier stomping the ground as he raised his longsword high. “Do not yield an inch!”
His soldiers obeyed with practiced precision, their movements a testament to the rigorous training Lansley demanded of them. Even as casualties mounted, the banner held firm, the pikemen driving back wave after wave of fiends while the knights counterattacked with calculated ferocity.
A massive baphomet emerged from the chaos, its twisted horns glinting as it swung a massive cleaver, cleaving through a section of the front line. The pikemen faltered, their formation breaking under the sheer force of the beast’s assault.
Lansley spurred his destrier forward, his voice ringing out across the field. “With me, Cavaliers! Take it down before it tears through our ranks!”
The mounted knights responded immediately, their lances lowering as they charged. Lansley led the assault, his crimson cloak billowing behind him as he closed the distance. The baphomet roared, raising its cleaver to meet them, but Lansley’s voice rang out like a war drum.
“[Double Cross]!” he roared, activating a Mar-Tech. A surge of kinetic power echoed twice from one swing that ripped into the Baphomet’s otherworldly dark flesh.
The lumbering baphomet howled in agony, its cleaver falling from its grasp as the Cavalier’s lances pierced its flesh. The beast collapsed in a heap, black ichor pooling beneath it as Lansley turned to his men.
“Reform the line!” he ordered, his tone calm despite the intensity of the battle. “Do not let their sacrifice be in vain. Stand together, and they will not break us!”
The pikemen quickly regrouped, their shields locking into place as the next wave of fiends closed in. Lansley rode along the line, his presence a steadying force amidst the chaos. Soldiers who had faltered moments before now stood tall, their morale bolstered by the Duke’s unshakable composure.
Even as the fiends launched their most concentrated assault, Lansley’s banner held firm. The pikemen drove their weapons into the enemy ranks with unwavering precision, while the knights executed flawless charges that shattered the fiends’ momentum.
Through it all, Lansley remained a pillar of strength, his voice cutting through the din of battle to inspire his men. “For Midland!” he roared, his sword held high. “Hold the line!”
The soldiers echoed his cry, their voices rising in unison as they drove the fiends back once more. Though the losses were heavy, the right flank remained unbroken, a testament to Lansley’s leadership and the discipline of his troops.
As the tide of fiends began to ebb, the Duke cast a glance toward the center of the battlefield, where the Royal Army’s banners still flew.
“Hold fast,” Lansley murmured to himself, his grip tightening on his reins. “Arlan, wherever you are, make this worth the cost.”
Amidst the chaos of the battlefield, Princess Emmeline stood at the command post, her eyes scanning the reports and maps spread out before her. Despite the shouts and clashes echoing around her, her focus sharpened, her mind processing the flow of the battle like pieces on a chessboard.
Something stirred within her—a faint, pulsing connection she hadn’t felt since the day she had bestowed the Avens power upon Arlan in their shared moment of desperation.
Her thoughts grew clearer, the chaos transforming into patterns. It wasn’t magic she could wield but something else entirely—a clarity born from the resonance of Arlan’s bloodline.
It was as though a fragment of his strategic brilliance had awakened in her, amplifying her instincts and enabling her to see not just the battlefield but the possibilities of what could unfold.
She stepped forward, her voice rising over the cacophony. “Send a runner to Duke Lansley. Have him press forward at the next break in the fiends’ advance. He’ll know when to strike.” Her orders carried a confident precision that caught the attention of her adjutants.
“And Yozac’s forces?” one officer asked, his tone steady but uncertain.
“Tell Master Grayshaper to coordinate with Baroness Katalina Reeve. Collapse the enemy’s left flank while Lansley pushes the right. Once we force the fiends into a bottleneck, we’ll retake the center ground and secure the wounded.”
The officers exchanged brief glances, then saluted. They moved swiftly to relay her commands, the soldiers around her surging into motion.
On the northern flank, Yozac Grayshaper received a runner with commands and grinned as he hefted his warhammers. “The Princess knows what she’s doing,” he muttered, raising his voice to his adventurers. “Alright, you lot! Push hard on the left! Katalina’s comin’ in from the north, and we’re squeezin’ these bastards like a bloody vice!”
Katalina, further along the northern ridge, saw what was happening and rallied her heavy infantry. “Mages, support the advance! Infantry, shields high—we’re moving forward!” Her voice rang out with renewed strength, her earlier doubts overshadowed by the clarity of Emmeline’s leadership.
The mages hurled coordinated volleys of fire and lightning, carving a path through the fiends’ ranks. Behind them, Katalina’s pikemen advanced with discipline, their wall of spears cutting down anything in their path.
To her right, Yozac and his adventurers surged forward, their raw ferocity punching through the fiends’ disorganized left flank.
At the right flank, Duke Lansley held his forces steady as Emmeline’s order reached him. He turned to his banner captains, his expression unreadable but determined. “The Princess commands the advance. Ready the knights—we’ll strike at the heart of their momentum.”
The moment came when the fiends recoiled from the relentless counterattacks on their flanks. Lansley raised his sword high. “Charge!”
His mounted knights surged forward, their lances gleaming as they pierced through the disoriented fiends. The pikemen followed, their formations flawless as they drove the enemy back. The right flank, once faltering, now surged with renewed purpose.
From the command post, Emmeline’s eyes darted across the battlefield, her voice cutting through the din as she issued more commands. “Secure the ground gained by Lansley’s charge! Send reserves to reinforce Yozac and Katalina. Medics and clerics, move forward to tend to the wounded while we have breathing room!”
The soldiers rallied to her voice, their spirits lifting as they executed her orders with precision. The Royal Army, which had been on the verge of collapse, now moved with coordinated strength. Fiends were pushed back in waves, their numbers unable to match the disciplined assault from Midland’s forces.
In the heart of the battlefield, Katalina and Yozac met amidst the chaos, their forces converging as the fiends’ left flank crumbled. “Good timing,” Yozac grunted, swinging a hammer into a towering baphomet. “Didn’t think you’d make it.”
“Thank the Princess,” Katalina replied sharply, skewering a fiend with her spear. “She’s the reason we’re still standing.”
As the allied forces pressed forward, the lines finally began to stabilize. The wounded were pulled back to safety, and the soldiers held their ground with newfound hope.
At the command post, Emmeline let out a slow breath, her hands gripping the edge of the table. The reports flooding in spoke of heavy losses, but they also carried a clear message: the line had held. For now, Midland’s forces had turned the tide.
She stood tall, her gaze sweeping over the battlefield. The soldiers around her watched her with admiration and trust, their morale bolstered by her leadership. Though the cost had been high, Emmeline knew they had bought Arlan and his strike team the time they needed.
Quietly, she whispered to herself, “This isn’t over. But we’ll endure. We have to.”
Her resolve hardened as the sounds of battle began to fade, replaced by the shouts of officers rallying their troops for the next wave. The Princess of Midland had proven herself a leader, and her soldiers would follow her to the end.
As the battlefield raged on, the distant screeches of fiends gave way to the groans of the wounded and the murmured prayers of clerics. The acrid stench of blood and burned mana lingered in the air, but for the first time in what felt like an eternity, the chaos had stabilized only slightly.
Princess Emmeline stood at the edge of the command post, her cloak fluttering lightly in the breeze. Her red eyes scanned the battlefield, taking in the weary soldiers tending to their wounded comrades, the shattered weapons strewn across the ground, and the distant silhouette of the Iron Grotto, its jagged maw like a dark omen on the horizon.
She closed her eyes, her hands clenched into fists. “Arlan,” she whispered softly, her voice barely audible. “Wherever you are… whatever you’re facing in that cursed place… please, succeed.”
Her gaze lifted toward the Iron Grotto in the distance, her expression resolute but tinged with an ache she couldn’t shake. “They call you the Immortal General and that you can do anything… But I know better than anyone how much weight you carry, how much you’ve sacrificed to bring us this far. And still, I ask you to bear even more.”
A faint breeze brushed against her face, carrying with it the faint cries of her soldiers and the ominous hum of distant battle. Her grip tightened.
“You’re our last hope,” she continued, her voice growing firmer. “Out here, we’re holding on by threads. By sheer will and… If we’re to survive, if we’re to win, you must end this quickly.”
She paused, her gaze softening. “Come back to us, Arlan. Not just as Midland’s hero, but as the man who’s carried our hopes. My hopes.”
Turning back to the bustling command post, she straightened her shoulders, the fleeting vulnerability vanishing behind a mask of determination. “We’ll hold the line,” she said, her voice strong and steady. “Until you finish what you started.”
And with that, the Princess of Midland stepped back into the fray, her heart heavy with hope, fear, and the unspoken wish that the man she believed in would deliver them all from the brink.