Eidel

  Eidel’s violet eyes ignited, purple light blooming within them as she caught an orc in the grip of her power. The creature thrashed, muscles locking as time itself tightened around it, its snarl freezing half-formed on its tusked mouth. A heartbeat later, Zahir was there—one clean step, one efficient cut—and the orc collapsed in pieces at his feet.

  The night did not pause for them.

  All along the wall, the battle churned and screamed. Orcs hauled themselves out of the trenches, bodies impaled on blood-slick spikes, only to keep climbing anyway. The trench had become a grisly ladder of flesh and iron, and still they came, howling and furious.

  Eidel tracked the field with cold precision. To her left, one of her guards took a glancing blow, staggered, then vanished beneath three charging orcs. Steel rang, a scream cut short, and then there was only movement where a person had been.

  Another guard—a woman with cropped hair—stumbled back toward Eidel, blood darkening her side. Before Eidel could reach her, the healer Ida was already there, hands glowing faintly as she pressed them to the wound. Ida’s face was gray with exhaustion, her movements slower than before, but she did not stop. She never stopped.

  Eidel admired her. She knelt beside them and took the wounded guard’s hand.

  “I’m sorry,” Eidel said softly. “For bringing you into this.”

  The woman managed a small smile and shook her head once, meeting Eidel’s gaze without fear.

  “We are Handomeans,” she said simply.

  The words carried more weight than any oath or banner. In them lay history and pride. A pride Eidel desperately wanted to restore.

  Eidel swallowed, a tear wetting the corner of her eye as she tightened her grip on the woman’s hand and nodded in return.

  “If it’s this bad here,” Ida said breathlessly, not looking up from her work, “I can’t imagine how the weaker sections are holding.”

  Eidel let out a short, humorless laugh. “Unfortunately,” she said, “your Tribune Maku does not understand orcs.”

  Ida glanced up, confusion knitting her brow. “What do you mean?”

  “They don’t hunt weakness the way other races do,” Eidel replied, her gaze never leaving the wall. “They charge strength. They hurl themselves at whatever flank looks most imposing. To them, strength is a challenge, not a deterrent.”

  “The children,” she breathed. “They must be protected.”

  Eidel met her gaze and straightened, drawing what little strength she had left into her spine. When she spoke, her voice was steady—deliberately so.

  “We’re not leaving.”

  The words felt like a vow.

  If she withdrew now, this flank would break. And once it broke, the rest would fall in a matter of heartbeats.

  As if to test her resolve, two orcs broke through the press of defenders and sprinted toward Eidel. Zahir moved before either of them could draw breath. His blade flashed once, then again, efficient and brutal. Both orcs dropped in pieces without ever reaching her.

  “Lady Eidel,” he said tightly, wiping blood from his scarred cheek with the back of his wrist. “We need to withdraw. Now. We’ve done enough.”

  Eidel did not answer right away.

  Her eyes swept across the camp. She saw the tent where the non-combatants were sheltering. There were children, wounded, and those too weak to fight. Nearby, Rei stood firm, her firebolts measured and precise, knocking down any orc that slipped past the perimeter. The flares had already gone up. Reinforcements might come. Or they might not.

  “We can’t leave,” Eidel said quietly. “Not without the Chronomancer.”

  Zahir’s eyes sharpened beneath his sweat-matted hair. “You’re not fooling me,” he snapped. “This isn’t about taking the Chronomancer. It’s about what she said to you.”

  Eidel turned to face him fully, her gaze hard and unflinching. “Was she wrong?”

  “It doesn’t matter if she’s right or wrong if we don’t survive the night!” Zahir shouted, pivoting to cut down another orc that lunged too close. “This isn’t a story. It’s real. It’s ugly. And it doesn’t care if you think you’re the hero!”

  Eidel stepped past him, boots sinking slightly into churned mud, closer to the roar of battle.

  “I care,” she said. “And so do they.”

  She looked back once, toward the camp and toward the frightened and exhausted people who had trusted them.

  “We are Handomeans,” she murmured, a reminder and a vow all at once.

  Then she turned forward and walked into the fight.

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  —

  She advanced toward the heart of the fighting, each step deliberate, unhurried.

  Zahir cut down another orc and wheeled on her, blood slicking his blade before a thin sheath of wind hissed across it, flinging the gore away. The magic along the edge vibrated and sang, sharpening the steel, multiplying its lethality.

  “Don’t do what I think you’re doing!” he shouted over the clash of metal and screams. “Even if we live through this, we’re finished!”

  Eidel turned back to him. There was no anger in her face—only a quiet, aching sadness, and a small, resigned smile.

  “Then,” she said softly, “the rest belongs to fate.”

  She blinked.

  When her eyes opened again, they burned. No longer merely violet, but a deep, devouring purple, threaded through with faint, shifting runes. Power welled behind her gaze, thick and oppressive, pressing against the air as if the world itself.

  For a heartbeat, she hesitated. If she continued, there would be no going back.

  Then an orc cleaved down one of her guards and raised a massive scimitar to finish the job.

  Eidel lifted a hand.

  The orc froze mid-motion.

  Its body trembled. Eyes bulged wide in mute panic. Its grip slackened, fingers twitching as something unseen took hold.

  Slowly—agonizingly—it turned its own blade inward.

  Steel slid into flesh. The orc sagged, collapsing in a heap without another sound.

  The guard stared at the corpse, shaking violently, then looked up at her.

  “Th—thank you, my lady,” the guard whispered, shaking.

  Eidel didn’t answer.

  She stepped forward.

  All around her, guards and villagers were being cut down as screams tore through the night interspersed with steel ringing and bodies falling. Something in her chest snapped. Rage flooded through her veins.

  Her presence expanded.

  The ground trembled faintly as her domain unfurled, stretching outward in a widening circle that swallowed the battlefield hundreds of feet in every direction. Her eyes blazed brighter still.

  “Eidel!” Zahir shouted.

  A pulse snapped.

  Nearly half the orcs fighting near her stopped at once. Their blades stilled mid-swing. Then, as one, they turned.

  And began slaughtering their own.

  Steel met flesh. Orc screamed at orc. Confusion became carnage.

  Eidel staggered as the power tore through her, draining her far faster than she’d expected. Blood leaked from the corners of her eyes and nose, warm against her skin.

  “How…?” a villager whispered nearby, horror-struck.

  “A forbidden art,” one of her guards breathed, eyes wide with terror. “Our entire house will burn for this.”

  Eidel looked to Zahir.

  He didn’t meet her gaze.

  “We are undone,” he said quietly.

  The possessed orcs fought like madmen until the enemy realized what was happening. Then the remaining orcs turned on them, desperate and furious, hacking down their own kin to survive.

  The tide shifted.

  Hope flickered through the defenders.

  Eidel dared to believe it might be enough.

  Then the smoke parted.

  A presence emerged that crushed that hope instantly.

  [Orc Warlord — Level 23]

  The orc that stepped forward dwarfed the others—broader, taller, wrapped in scarred armor blackened like burned iron. A massive red feather rose from behind its helm, stained dark with old blood. In its hands was a sword so enormous and jagged it made Barrett’s look like a toy.

  Eidel stepped forward instinctively and hurled everything she had at it.

  Her vision flared white. Runes burned. Blood streamed freely now. Her muscles screamed, her body shaking under the strain as she poured her will into the giant.

  For a moment, just a moment, she thought she had him.

  Then the warlord looked down at her.

  And smiled.

  “Not enough,” it rumbled.

  The great sword rose.

  “Get back!”

  Zahir crashed into the blow, deflecting it just enough to shove Eidel aside as the impact tore into the earth. Her remaining guards surged forward, throwing themselves at the warlord in a desperate charge.

  One was cut in half mid-stride.

  Zahir pressed on regardless.

  He and the last surviving guard moved together with practiced precision—one attacking, the other defending, filling each other’s gaps as if they shared a single mind. Wind howled as Zahir unleashed a force-laden strike, driving the monster back a step.

  “For Bagravia!” Zahir roared.

  His twin-bladed sword vanished into motion, steel blurring as it carved through the air. Cut after cut rained down, each strike landing with a shower of sparks as the warlord’s armored hide rejected the blows.

  Eidel watched and was reminded how Zahir had earned his scars.

  The wind answered him.

  It tightened around his body, a thin, screaming sheath that accelerated his movements while dragging at anything that came too close. He had never possessed great mana reserves, but what little he wielded he spent with ruthless efficiency—speeding himself, stealing momentum from his enemy. Every incoming strike slowed by a fraction. Every counterattack sharpened.

  Together, Zahir and the remaining guard drove the warlord back step by grinding step, their tempo rising as desperation crept in. They attacked faster and faster, trying to slip a killing blow through before the orc’s reactive armor could manifest and turn steel aside.

  Zahir pivoted and slammed a kick into the warlord’s leg, sending the massive creature staggering backward.

  One step.

  Two.

  The edge of the trench yawned behind it.

  Then the warlord stopped.

  And smiled.

  It had been a feint.

  The orc surged forward with sudden, monstrous speed, the shift so violent it tore the breath from Eidel’s lungs. Steel flashed.

  The remaining guard fell in a single, brutal stroke.

  Zahir was struck an instant later—kicked aside like a broken doll, his body crashing into the dirt and skidding to a stop at Eidel’s feet.

  “No!” she screamed, tears spilling freely now.

  The warlord advanced—

  —and a massive blast of fire slammed into its chest, driving it back.

  Heat washed over the battlefield as a towering wall of flame erupted, the air screaming as it burned.

  The battlefield reeled as a towering wall of flame roared into existence. The air itself shrieked, warping and buckling under the inferno’s force. Heat crashed outward in waves, searing skin and stealing breath.

  From behind Eidel, a woman with black hair strode forward, arms raised, teeth clenched as she held the wall in place through sheer will. Fire coiled and churned the blazing barrier that penned the monster in, refusing it even a single step closer.

  “Lady Rei,” Eidel breathed.

  Rei’s shoulders shook as she strained to hold the inferno in place, sweat streaking down her face. “We can’t beat him,” she said through clenched teeth, every word dragged out by effort.

  “We must endure,” Eidel replied, steady despite the chaos. “The Imperator will come.”

  Rei’s jaw tightened as the flames bucked and surged against her will. “Even Barrett wouldn’t be enough,” she said quietly. “This isn’t a normal orc.”

  Eidel’s breath caught. “Is this the one you faced before?”

  “Gabul,” Rei said, the name falling like a curse.