Darian took a deep breath and sprinted from behind the hill. His sword gleamed in the sunlight as twelve rebels followed at his heels. In his War Frame, he registered the new formation:

  Squad Assignment: Direct Command

  Field Commander: Darian Vale

  Unit Size: 12

  Status: Unbloodied

  Unlike Bran, who provided natural leadership bonuses to his men, Darian's strength lay elsewhere. His mind sharpened as he approached the battlefield, focusing on the chaotic melee ahead.

  "Stay tight! Follow my lead!" he called over his shoulder.

  The rebels' footfalls thundered behind him as they closed the distance. Through Warsight, he identified the critical weakness in the Veyltharion line—Beyris and his flaming sword had created a dangerous pressure point. Veyltharion soldiers buckled under the assault, their formation crumbling.

  "There!" Darian pointed toward the breaking point. "We reinforce that position!"

  But they were seconds too late. The Veyltharion line fractured completely. Soldiers broke ranks and fled from Beyris, whose flaming sword cut a deadly arc through the air. An Azgraburian soldier laughed as he drove his spear into a retreating Veyltharion's back.

  Darian's jaw clenched. He needed to act now.

  He reached deep into his reserves and looked to the Warmaster spells he'd learned in Myrmidos's arcane sanctums under War Sage Alberan's critical eye. The Resilience spell flowed to the forefront of his mind, and he cast it through the Warsong link. A moment later, a shimmer of pale blue light that washed over his twelve rebels.

  Resilience Cast

  Power Level: 3.5/5

  Defense +25

  Duration: 12 Minutes

  Without pausing, he wove the threads of another Warmaster spell, Intensify. The strain of maintaining multiple spells simultaneously caused him to break out in cold sweat. A crimson glow enveloped his men's weapons.

  Intensify Cast

  Power Level: 1/5

  Offense +10

  Duration: 8 Minutes

  Darian focused inward for one final spell. It wasn't a Warmaster spell, but a Battle Magic one, which he directed at himself. The familiar pattern of Fortify took shape in his mind—but it was different from the Resilience he cast on his men. This was a more concentrated version, meant for a single target.

  Fortify Cast

  Target: Self

  Effect: Skin and Muscle Density +200%

  Strength +10%

  Duration: 15 Minutes

  His skin hardened, muscles tightened. The sensation reminded him of plate armor but without the weight or restriction. The combined strain of maintaining five spells at once—Warsong, Warsight, Resilience, Intensify, and Fortify—pressed against his mind like a vise. He compartmentalized the pressure and focused on the immediate threat.

  Beyris stepped forward, his flaming sword raised to strike down a fleeing Veyltharion soldier who had tripped and fallen.

  "Not today," Darian muttered.

  He lunged forward with impossible speed and brought his sword up in a perfect arc. Steel met enchanted flame with a sound like thunder. The impact sent shockwaves up his arm, but his fortified muscles absorbed the blow. Beyris staggered backward, his eyes wide with surprise.

  "What the—" Beyris sputtered.

  Darian held his ground between the Master Sergeant and the fallen soldier. "Get back to your men," he said to the Veyltharion without looking down. The soldier scrambled to his feet and retreated.

  Beyris regained his balance and pointed his flaming sword at Darian. "You're dead, rebel scum."

  Darian ignored Beyris's threats. Words wasted breath, and breath wasted time. He lunged forward with precise footwork, his sword a silver blur. The first cut opened a shallow line across Beyris's forearm. The second sliced through the man's leather pauldron.

  "Too slow," Darian thought as he sidestepped a wild counter-swing.

  He could have ended this in seconds. A thrust through the throat. A slash across the hamstrings. But that wasn't the point. His War Frame highlighted the watching Azgraburian soldiers, their attention fixed on their commander.

  Target Status: Beyris

  Combat Effectiveness: 45% and dropping

  Morale Impact on Nearby Units: -15%

  Perfect.

  Darian parried Beyris's flaming sword and countered with a pommel strike to the jaw. Teeth clacked together. Blood sprayed from the man's split lip. Darian circled left, maintaining perfect distance.

  "Stand still and fight!" Beyris spat blood onto the dirt.

  Darian answered with three lightning-fast cuts—shoulder, thigh, ribs—none deep enough to cripple, each precise enough to bleed and burn. He watched the Azgraburians from his peripheral vision. Their eyes widened. Their formations loosened. Some took half-steps backward.

  Azgraburian Front Line

  Morale: 35% and dropping

  Tactical Cohesion: Compromised

  Distraction Level: High

  Now.

  "Strike!" Darian commanded through the Warsong link.

  His squad charged past him like a battering ram. Farmer Harrick swung his two-handed mallet in a vicious arc that crushed an Azgraburian's chest plate. Joren, the village lumberjack, buried his woodcutter's axe into a soldier's shoulder. The Azgraburians barely raised their shields in time—some not at all.

  Rebel Footmen (Great Weapons)

  If you find this story on Amazon, be aware that it has been stolen. Please report the infringement.

  Offense: 40

  Defense: 25

  Special: Shock Value, First Strike Advantage

  Darian knocked Beyris to one knee with a savage kick. The man's flaming sword wobbled in his grip. Blood streamed down his face.

  "Your men are dying while you fail," Darian said, just loud enough for nearby soldiers to hear.

  The Azgraburians' discipline crumbled as Darian's squad tore through their front rank. A mallet crushed a helmet. An axe split a shield. Screams replaced battle cries.

  Beyris staggered to his feet and launched a desperate overhead strike. Darian caught the flaming blade between his crossed gauntlets and twisted. The sword clattered to the ground. He followed with an elbow strike to Beyris's nose. Cartilage crunched. The Master Sergeant dropped to his knees, blood pouring down his face.

  Azgraburian Morale: Critical (25%)

  Combat Effectiveness: Severely Compromised

  Darian's squad pushed deeper into the enemy formation, their great weapons creating a brutal harvest. The Azgraburians backed away from their fallen commander, their eyes fixed on Darian rather than the rebels who cut them down.

  Fear. The oldest weapon on any battlefield.

  Darian watched Beyris scramble backward, one hand clutching his shattered nose. Blood streamed between his fingers and soaked into his beard. The Master Sergeant's eyes darted wildly, seeking escape.

  "Fall back!" Beyris bellowed through the blood. "Regroup at the garrison!"

  His command came too late. The Azgraburians broke formation, their retreat devolving into panic as they shoved past each other. Two soldiers turned their backs completely—a fatal mistake. A rebel farmer swung his sledgehammer in a vicious arc that connected with the first man's spine. The crack echoed across the battlefield. The second Azgraburian managed three steps before a woodcutter's axe buried itself between his shoulder blades.

  Darian's War Frame shifted, categorizing the battlefield elements with crisp efficiency:

  Azgraburian Front Line: ROUTING

  Rebel Footmen (Great Weapons): Offense 45%, Morale 90%

  Combat Status: Pursuit Phase

  He pivoted, surveying the wider battle. The flanking rebels with their improvised ranged weapons—hunting bows, slings, and thrown tools—had pinned down another group of Azgraburians. These enemy soldiers wavered, caught between rebel missiles and the renewed assault of Veyltharion soldiers.

  His attention shifted to Bran's squad. The blacksmith stood at the center of his formation, his massive frame impossible to miss even at this distance. His polearm fighters maintained a disciplined wall of spear points against the main Azgraburian force. Though outnumbered and facing trained soldiers with superior equipment, they held firm. Their defensive posture—spears braced against the ground, shields overlapped—compensated for their inexperience.

  Darian's War Frame updated:

  Rebel Footmen (Polearms)

  Offense: 30

  Defense: 65

  Special: Formation Integrity, Reach Advantage

  Commander Bonus: Bran (+15% Defense, +10% Morale)

  Status: 4 wounded, 0 casualties

  Rebel Skirmishers

  Offense: 25 (Ranged), 15 (Melee)

  Defense: 20

  Speed: 70

  Special: Harassment, Mobility

  Status: Engaged with eastern Azgraburian flank

  The battle's momentum had shifted. Darian needed to capitalize on it. He reached through the Warsong link to the Rebel Skirmishers, and crystalized his thoughts into clear commands for them.

  "Skirmishers, break contact. Pursue the routing enemy. Don't let them regroup."

  He felt their acknowledgment through the link—a mixture of excitement and determination. The Skirmishers disengaged immediately, abandoning their positions to sprint after the fleeing Azgraburians. A butcher hefted his cleaver as he ran. A hunter nocked another arrow to his bow. Their movements flowed like water around obstacles, nimble despite their lack of formal training.

  "Don't let a single one reach the garrison," Darian added. "Every enemy that escapes will face us again tomorrow."

  Darian's mind raced as he assessed the battlefield. The Azgraburians fleeing from his squad created an opportunity he couldn't waste. A classic hammer-and-anvil maneuver would crush the enemy force still engaged with Bran's polearm fighters.

  "Hold!" he commanded his great weapon fighters. The men paused mid-pursuit, blood-slicked weapons still raised. "New target. Follow me!"

  He pointed toward the largest cluster of Azgraburian soldiers—at least seventeen men locked in combat with Bran's defensive line. Their backs were exposed, and their attention was largely fixed forward on the wall of rebel polearms. Perfect.

  Darian reached through the Warsong link to Bran's mind. Bran, hold your line firm. We'll hit them from behind in thirty seconds.

  The blacksmith's thoughts echoed back, clear and determined. We'll hold. Strike true.

  "With me!" Darian shouted, leading his squad in a wide arc around the battlefield. The War Frame highlighted the optimal approach vector—a slight depression in the ground would shield their movement until the final moment.

  Rebel Footmen (Great Weapons)

  Offense: 45

  Element of Surprise: +90 offense (degrades by 20% per second after initial impact)

  Flanking Bonus: +25 offense

  They closed the distance at a sprint. Darian's lungs burned, but he pushed harder. Timing mattered. The Azgraburians pressed against Bran's line, unaware of the death approaching from behind.

  "Now!" Darian roared.

  His squad erupted from the depression like demons from the underworld. Farmer Harrick's hammer connected with an Azgraburian's skull. Bone shattered. Brain matter sprayed across three nearby soldiers. Joren's axe severed a man's spine at the neck. The body dropped, head dangling by threads of flesh.

  Darian drove his sword through an Azgraburian's back. The blade punched through leather armor, then burst through the chest. He planted a boot on the man's back and wrenched his sword free. Blood fountained from the wound.

  An Azgraburian turned, eyes wide with shock. His mouth opened to shout a warning. Too late. Darian's blade opened his throat. The soldier clutched at the wound as blood poured between his fingers.

  The rebels tore through the enemy ranks with savage efficiency. Hammers crushed skulls. Axes split torsos. Makeshift maces pulverized limbs. No quarter was given—there was no time for any to be asked.

  The slaughter ended in seconds. All the Azgraburians lay dead or dying, caught between Bran's spears and the rebels' great weapons.

  Across the field, the remaining Azgraburians witnessed the massacre. Their formation disintegrated. They turned to flee, throwing aside weapons and shields.

  "Cowards!" a Veyltharion soldier shouted.

  The local soldiers pursued with unexpected ferocity. Swords flashed. Spears thrust. The Veyltharions cut down every fleeing Azgraburian from behind, their strikes fueled by months of resentment.

  Darian checked the status of his Skirmishers through Warsight.

  Rebel Skirmishers

  Status: Engagement Complete

  Enemy Casualties: 100% (except Beyris)

  Friendly Casualties: 0

  He saw them gathered near the road. Four rebels held Beyris on his knees, the Master Sergeant's face a bloody mess. His flaming sword lay extinguished in the dirt beside him.

  Darian glanced at the archer towers of the garrison compound. If there were any archers deployed in them in the first place, they would be fleeing now through a rear gate or side door.

  I'll have to leave that be, he thought. Without cavalry, I can't conduct any sweep and pursue maneuvers.

  Darian turned as Bran approached. The Fell Handed Duke's massive frame was splattered with blood. His men followed behind, their faces etched with disbelief at their own survival.

  "Your first victory, Duke Ironheart," Darian said, extending his arm.

  Bran stared at the carnage around them, then at Darian's offered hand. His eyes held a mixture of awe and horror.

  "I..." Bran swallowed hard and clasped Darian's forearm. He nodded, words momentarily beyond him.

  Darian watched as the Rebel Skirmishers dragged Beyris across the blood-soaked ground. The Master Sergeant's face was a ruin of blood and broken cartilage, one eye swollen shut. They threw him at Darian's feet like a sack of grain. Beyris collapsed to his knees, his hands bound behind his back.

  Through Warsight, Darian assessed the prisoner:

  Target Status: Beyris

  Combat Effectiveness: 5%

  Threat Level: Minimal

  Value: Intelligence Asset (Low)

  Beyris looked up, his one good eye darting between Darian and Bran. Blood and snot bubbled from his nostrils with each panicked breath.

  "Please," Beyris rasped. "I followed orders. Just following orders."

  Bran stepped forward, his massive frame looming over the kneeling prisoner. His face hardened into a mask of cold fury.

  "Orders?" Bran spat. "What orders did Glenn follow to deserve what you did to him?"

  Darian noticed Bran's white-knuckled grip on his war hammer. The blacksmith's shoulders tensed as he raised the weapon.

  "He was a traitor!" Beyris shrieked. "Please! I can tell you about troop movements, supply lines—"

  Bran hesitated, his hammer poised. He turned his head slightly toward Darian, a question in his eyes.

  Darian considered the tactical value of the prisoner. Beyris knew little of importance—he was a mid-level officer with access only to local information. The garrison's defenses were already visible. The troop numbers could be counted from the bodies. Any intelligence he provided would be outdated within days as Malevora responded to this defeat.

  More importantly, this moment offered something more valuable than intelligence: the establishment of command structure.

  Darian gave Bran a slight nod—subtle enough that only Bran noticed, but visible to those watching closely. The message was clear: The Duke made the decision, but the Warmaster approved it.

  Bran's jaw set. He brought the hammer down in a single, powerful arc. The weapon connected with Beyris's skull with a sickening crunch. The Master Sergeant's head collapsed like an eggshell. His body pitched forward onto the dirt.

  A hush fell over the battlefield. Darian observed the reactions through his War Frame:

  Rebel Footmen

  Morale: 95%

  Loyalty to Command Structure: +15%

  A skirmisher approached with Beyris's enchanted sword. The blade's fire had died, but faint runes still glowed along its length. The man offered it to Bran with a small bow.

  "For you, Duke Ironheart. Spoils of battle."

  Bran accepted the weapon, turned it over in his hands, then held it out to Darian.

  "Your sword served you well enough today," Bran said, "but this might serve you better. A Warmaster should wield a weapon worthy of his station."

  Darian accepted the blade. The enchantment felt warm against his palm, dormant but powerful.

  "I'll hold onto it for now," Darian said. "My own blade is balanced to my arm, reliable in ways magic sometimes isn't. But a fire-enchanted sword will prove useful in certain circumstances."

  A skirmisher ripped Beyris's sheath off of his belt and handed it to Darian. Darian slid the fiery blade into its scabbard, then buckled it in place upon his belt alongside his own sheathed sword. "If we find a true master swordsman among our recruits, perhaps they'll put it to better use than I could."