Containing the forest fire had been a matter of a few hours’ work for the nearest patrols. Alchemical explosions were dangerous enough to melt through stone and burn a whole forest to the ground if allowed to grow, but a hallowed place like the Darkwood was not without its defenses.

  Leonard hadn’t been particularly worried about the forest. If something genuinely threatening happened, Nemas would intervene long before he did.

  What he had been worried about was how Oliver would react to his first real defeat.

  Yes, the kid had managed to send the loyalists running and had even protected his closest comrades from the worst of the fire. But he didn’t have the immense reserves necessary to maintain his barriers forever, and certainly not far enough to protect everyone.

  When Leonard arrived, a nearby water mage had already put the green flames to rest, aided by an old orc shaman who was currently examining the damage done to the trees. He was also treated to the sight of a row of burned bodies and of his squire weeping over one of them.

  A quick look told him that the majority was loyalist soldiers, and he immediately removed them from his attention. He did not need further information.

  Leonard took a few steps hesitantly, despite resurrection being a time-sensitive miracle. The longer he waited, the more chances there were for the dead souls to be gone from his grasp. And yet, something within that had long since given up on himself told him he shouldn’t allow Oliver to treat death as an inconvenience, as he did.

  The boy had talent. That was irrefutable. Without Leonard’s teachings, he might have still been a Journeyman, but even that was quite an accomplishment. Objectively, Leonard could see Oliver reach Master within a few years if the campaign continued at the same intensity. Champion would be far away, but the kid could get there.

  He did not have what it takes to shed mortality.

  That knowledge held him back for a few seconds longer. It made him seriously consider stepping back and allowing nature to continue unimpeded, teaching Oliver a valuable lesson. It would preserve something precious at the cost of the boy’s affection and naivety.

  Logic reasserted itself soon enough, and he closed the distance until he could place a warm hand on his kid’s shoulder.

  Leonard’s grip was firm but gentle as he shook Oliver, pulling him away from the charred body. “Come on, kid,” he murmured, his voice low and steady. “I’m here.”

  Oliver startled, wide-eyed and unfocused as he jerked upright, scrabbling to his feet. His gaze darted frantically over the burned clearing before locking onto Leonard’s face. Recognition flashed, and with it came a desperate, clinging hope. “Sir Leonard!” he gasped, his voice breaking. “You can bring them back, right? You can resurrect them. Please—”

  Leonard’s expression softened, and he gave a reassuring nod. “Step aside,” he said, his tone gentle but firm. “I’ll take care of it.”

  Oliver hesitated, his hands twitching at his sides as though he wasn’t quite ready to let go. But then he took a few shaky steps back, taking ragged gulps of air as he watched Leonard kneel beside the bodies.

  Drawing a deep breath, Leonard reached within himself, descending into the infinite well of power that he carried within his soul. He felt the familiar caress of the Light rising to greet him, coiling around his thoughts and stretching under his skin like a mantle. His mind pushed outward, piercing through the layers of reality until the faint glimmers of the souls began to emerge—wisps of a thousand colors, shimmering at the very edge of perception.

  They were still close, lingering near their ruined bodies, too newly dead to have moved on. Strong souls took longer to let go of their earthly remains—sometimes, they never did. But that was another set of problems. Leonard observed the threads of their existence for any excessive corruption, but the tenuous bonds still connecting them to the world were pure.

  He reached out, casting [True Resurrection] with ease that could only come to one such as him. His power surged forward, snaking out to grasp the spirits, drawing them back from the edges of the shadowed realm.

  But he didn’t tie them to their bodies just yet. First, he scoured them clean, washing away the taint of death and unraveling the trauma that had embedded itself in their souls. He could feel the lingering pain of the fire, the terror of those final moments, and with a gentle touch, he smoothed it away, leaving behind only the essence of who they had been. His skill was such by now that they would only forget the last few minutes.

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  The bodies below him shifted, their charred flesh knitting together and becoming smooth while color returned to pallid cheeks. Within moments, three young warriors and a witch were whole again, the light of life rekindling in their eyes as they gasped for air and sat up. Leonard exhaled slowly, releasing the power and allowing it to settle back into his veins. The world around him came rushing back, sharp and clear.

  Oliver was already moving, closing the distance in a heartbeat. He practically fell onto the nearest of his revived friends, wrapping them in a tight embrace as a sob escaped his throat. The others joined in soon after, their relief pouring out in a cacophony of joyous cries and tearful laughter. The squad clustered together, a tangle of limbs and emotion, their voices rising to celebrate the impossible miracle.

  Leonard watched them for a moment, a quiet satisfaction settling over him though his expression remained inscrutable. He took a step back, letting the boy have his moment. He’d have time to learn.

  A runner approached from the edge of the clearing, his boots crunching over the ash-strewn ground. “Sir,” he said breathlessly, bowing his head as he came to a stop. “The preparations are ready. We can move forward with the next step.”

  Leonard inclined his head, his gaze flickering back to the young paladin and his friends. “We march at dawn,” he replied.

  First light saw the Revolutionary Army emerge from the Darkwood like a swarm of ants. In lockstep, they marched along the road, sending what little wildlife remained within the abandoned wheat fields running. They wound their way down the road like a great serpent, the ranks of soldiers moving in disciplined rhythm. Fifteen thousand strong, their banners snapping in the wind, they advanced steadily across the bleak, empty lands.

  At the helm, Leonard passively observed the horizon. The scouts reported that all the closest hamlets were empty, and they didn’t expect to find resistance until they got closer to Pepperhof, though given the subterfuge of the previous night, he wasn’t inclined to lower his guard.

  “It is a pity that Oliver didn’t manage to earn his knighthood, but he’ll have other chances,” Amelia murmured as she led her horse until it plodded next to his.

  For once, Leonard didn’t favor his friend with a smile.

  She was too canny to wheedle him now, having learned to read his moods, so she let the silence linger. Between two such as them, there was often no need for words, and while Leonard would have liked to reprimand her—she had to know, had to have been observing, for all that he found no traces of her shadows when he got there— he knew she could turn the same argument to him.

  He had allowed Oliver to go, knowing full well that his opponent was more experienced and canny enough to prepare for anything if he was willing to risk entering the Darkwood.

  But while Leonard couldn’t rightfully criticize her for making the same choice he had, that being allowing Oliver to face terrible defeat to learn the pain of a loss in a controlled environment, he still wouldn’t allow her to brush it off.

  Luckily, Amelia was smart enough to refrain from prodding a sore spot. She’d come back to it, as was her won’t, but hopefully enough time would have passed by then that Leonard wouldn’t feel as he did currently.

  Their silent spat was interrupted by one of the scouts coming to give his report. Since dawn, they echoed the same message: the hamlets were deserted, their cottages standing like hollowed-out bones left behind by retreating scavengers. But signs of recent habitation remained—fire pits still warm, and the scattered hoofprints of a few dozen horses leading away from the abandoned houses. Loyalist scouting parties had used the villages as a temporary camp only hours before.

  The road narrowed as they passed through a stretch of untended woodland, the dense underbrush thinning as they emerged into the fields that marked the outskirts of Pepperhof’s domain. Here and there, villagers peeked out from the cracked shutters of their homes, eyes wide and fearful as the army tramped past. The scouts had already deemed these people harmless, and Leonard was inclined to agree. These were not men who would raise arms against a marching army. Still, he had Amelia keep a few shadows at the back should any saboteur be hiding among them.

  As the sun climbed higher, reaching its zenith, Leonard caught the first glimmer of metal in the distance. He raised a fist, signaling for the army to halt. The command rippled back through the ranks, and with well-practiced efficiency, the soldiers stopped, their boots thudding into the earth in unison. They spread out, beginning to unload the artillery from the carts while mages went through the incantations that would strengthen their moving wards and protect the troops from wide-area hexes. Those, apparently, were a favorite of the Count and had allowed him to limit his losses against the orcs.

  Leonard advanced a while longer and stopped at the crest of a low hill, his eyes narrowing as he surveyed the Loyalist host arrayed before the gates of Pepperhof. Even from this distance, he could hear the rumble of activity drifting over the fields. Count Pollus had assembled his forces well—twenty thousand men at least, more than the recent estimates suggested. The bulk of the enemy army stood clustered around the central formation, disciplined soldiers from Hassel’s main garrison. But the flanks told a different story: lines of recruits still awkward in their armor, their ranks uneven.

  Green soldiers, Leonard noted with a faint, grim smile. Those would break quickly if pressure was applied.

  He gestured to the closest orc commander to join him. “Your warriors will hold the southern flank, closest to the river. The ground there is uneven, but that should work to your advantage. Break the line, and we’ll fold the center like a wet tissue.”

  The orc bared his teeth in a feral grin, nodding once. “Finally,” he growled. “We will crush them.”

  Leonard gave a curt nod. It was the most dangerous position on the battlefield—backed up against the river, with little room for retreat. But the orc warriors had asked for nothing less. Their ferocity would make up for any tactical and numerical disadvantage.

  As the orcs began peeling off, the Loyalist artillery rumbled to life. A few volleys of cannon fire tore through the air, accompanied by spells that lengthened their arc and promised an increased payload. The projectiles hurtled toward the Revolutionary lines, but the mages were ready. Barriers shimmered into existence, blue and silver shields stretching across the sky, absorbing the impact before the shots could reach their targets. The air trembled as spells collided, bursts of light cascading in the wake of the halted attack.

  Leonard remained still, watching the enemy ranks for any signs of movement. The Count would soon test his forces and probe for weaknesses in his lines. That first push would be crucial—if he could break their momentum, then the rest would be manageable without requiring his hand.

  His gaze drifted to the southern flank, where the orcs now stood at the ready, war hammers and axes held loose in muscled hands, their eyes alight with anticipation.

  A low growl rumbled from their ranks, the sound carrying over the fields as the tension built. Leonard allowed himself a thin smile.

  He signaled for his officers to ready their troops.

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