From atop Pepperhof's walls, Jeremiah watched as the Southern Army's trump card was unleashed upon the rebels.

  He prided himself on being a rational man, but even he could admit to being awed at the sheer display of power.

  The gigantic wyrm hovered above the armies for a few moments, giving everyone the time to understand what a great work of magic it was before it roared so loud that the stone trembled under his feet. Then it began its descent.

  "And so it ends." General Morrison said dispassionately. The man's cousin had just been killed in a highly visible duel with an orc warrior, but he seemed entirely unmoved.

  "I'm afraid it won't be that simple, " the robed man who had organized and led the ritual answered, and Jeremiah privately agreed. Everything he knew told him their trap should devastate the enemy force, but deep down, he didn't quite trust it himself.

  And if the Soaring Dragon is unsure, I wouldn't be surprised if they managed to survive this unscathed somehow. The bastard’s secretive, but he has forgotten more about magic than most Tower Masters know.

  As the Wyrm of Devastation plummeted toward the rebel lines, the sky seemed to darken in its wake, the sheer mass of the construct blotting out the sun. Jeremiah leaned forward, his knuckles white as he gripped the stone parapet, his pulse quickening in anticipation. It would be over soon, he told himself. The revolutionaries might have momentum, grit, and even some highly skilled commanders, but no one stood a chance against magic of this magnitude. It had been enough to eradicate the worst barbarian attack of the last century; it would be enough for these ragtag rebels.

  The air crackled with raw energy as the wyrm's colossal form pierced the layers of magical shields the rebels had hastily erected. One after another, the barriers shimmered and shattered like glass, the wyrm's descent seemingly unstoppable. Each time it broke through another layer, the tension among the loyalists eased just a little more. It was as though each barrier represented one last gasp of the rebels' defiance, and each time, it failed to halt the inevitable.

  Then, without warning, the world went dark.

  It happened so suddenly that Jeremiah's breath hitched in his throat. One moment, the battlefield was ablaze with the radiant light of shattering shields; the next, it was as though night had fallen. All around him, shouts of confusion and alarm erupted from the assembled commanders. "What is this?" General Morrison demanded, his tone finally cracking with the first hints of unease even as he called upon a flame on his palm to see.

  Jeremiah felt a cold dread coil in his gut. He wasn't sure what had caused the darkness, but he could feel the magic twisting around him—a deep, oppressive sensation that seemed to leech warmth from the air. It was as though the shadows themselves had come to life and were tightening their grip around the world.

  The hooded mage, standing near the back of the wall, let out a sigh and took on a tone of resignation. "Prepare yourselves," he said, already beginning to weave protective spells around the gathered officers. Sigils flared and danced around them, warding off whatever curse might befall them. "I fear the Mistress of Shadows has taken the field."

  The words sent a shiver down Jeremiah's spine. Lady Amelia Barks' reputation was one whispered in both fear and reverence, a name that conjured images of sorcery so dark that it was said to bend the fabric of reality itself. Spirit summoning was esoteric at the best of times, and she was known to have taken it further than any before her.

  Slowly, the darkness began to recede. At first, it was just a thin sliver of sunlight piercing through the gloom, but soon enough, the battlefield came back into view, the murk lifting as though a veil had been torn away. The shouts died down, and a stunned hush fell over the commanders as the truth revealed itself above their heads.

  The Wyrm of Devastation was still there, but it was no longer the majestic construct that had been summoned to crush the rebels. Its once-imposing form was riddled with gaping wounds, and entire sections of its serpentine body were torn away, revealing a hollow interior of fractured mana. A dark speck circled around it with terrible grace, trailing shadows that seemed to drink in the light. It didn't take long for Jeremiah to realize that the speck was her.

  Amelia moved like a streak of black lightning, darting through the air as the wyrm lashed out with desperate fury. Each time it tried to catch her with its razor-edged winds, the shadows she commanded surged forth, intercepting the blows and allowing nothing to spill over the petrified armies. She responded with beams of darkness that dimmed the sun, each striking the wyrm with the force of a thunderbolt, ripping through its armor of whirling air and scattering fragments of its essence across the sky.

  Stolen story; please report.

  The wyrm roared again, but this time, it was a cry of agony rather than dominance. It twisted and thrashed, trying to maintain cohesion, but each of Amelia's strikes sent cracks rippling along its body, unraveling the woven magic with every impact. The creature's attacks grew weaker and more frantic, as if it understood its own impending doom.

  Jeremiah's hands clenched as he watched the wyrm begin to lose altitude, its form shrinking as it bled mana like a wounded beast. It lashed out one final time, a desperate swing that used its whole body aimed directly at Amelia and caused a gust so strong it would have annihilated stout city walls. Still, she simply raised her hand, and the shadows gathered into a barrier dense enough that the wyrm's strike shattered against it. Then, she gathered the shadows and compressed them into a beam of utter darkness that struck its center. The spell construct shuddered, fractured, and collapsed in on itself, dissolving into wisps of dissipating magic.

  A heavy gloom settled over the battlefield, broken only by the roars of the advancing orcs and the murmur of bewildered soldiers. The mighty spell that should have decided the battle was gone, snuffed out like a candle in a storm.

  Jeremiah tore his gaze away from the sky, feeling cold. A voice jolted him out of his thoughts, calm and steady despite the absurd sight they had just witnessed.

  "We must retreat," said the hooded mage, brooking no argument as he turned to Count Pollus. "Nothing left in our arsenal can stand up to power of that level, and Weiss hasn't even shown his face yet. We will be annihilated if we persist."

  For a moment, Pollus seemed to struggle with the words, his face reddening as if he was about to refute the suggestion. Jeremiah knew he was considering taking the matter into his hands. But then he looked out over the battlefield, and the defiance drained from his expression. Slowly, he nodded.

  "Sound the retreat," Pollus ordered, his voice low and heavy. "We will abandon Pepperhof and make for Hassel. Nowhere else can shield us."

  Jeremiah swallowed hard. There was no shame in it, he told himself. Even the best-laid plans could go awry. But as the horns began to blow and the loyalist soldiers started to fall back, he couldn't shake the image of that dark figure, tearing apart the pride of their magic with a wave of her hand.

  The retreat unfolded like a collapsing dam, with soldiers streaming through the gates and into the narrow streets of Pepperhof. Jeremiah and Count Pollus moved quickly, weaving through the chaotic throng of men and officers as horns blared.

  Jeremiah's voice cut through the clamor as he shouted orders to the captains, trying to maintain some semblance of discipline. "Keep the ranks tight! Don't let them scatter!" His commands were met with strained nods as the soldiers funneled past him, the fear evident in their eyes. He glanced toward the Count, whose stern expression showed no trace of uncertainty. Pollus' jaw was set, his voice carrying the unyielding authority of a man who understood that hesitation now would mean death for all.

  But even as they organized the retreat, a different kind of desperation took hold. Civilians surged from the alleyways and shops, their faces pale with terror as they saw the army pulling away from the town. A woman clutched a child to her chest, her voice raw from screaming. "You can't leave us here!" she cried, her words nearly lost in the cacophony. "Please, we're loyal to the king! You have to protect us!"

  Jeremiah allowed their pleas to wash over him. "Move them back!" he ordered the soldiers closest to the civilians. "Keep the path clear!"

  The troops obeyed, pushing the desperate townspeople away from the gates and back toward the cobbled streets they called home. It was as though they were casting away flotsam to escape a sinking ship. Jeremiah watched as a man fell to his knees, clutching his head in despair, while an old merchant clung to a soldier's cloak, begging to be taken with them. The cloak was torn away, and the merchant stumbled back, his eyes hollow with disbelief.

  Jeremiah forced himself to look away. There were thousands still in Pepperhof—innocents who would be left at the mercy of the rebels. Yet, as he pushed through the crowd, he reminded himself that Leonard Weiss hadn't proven himself overly cruel, and his hold on the rebellious territories had been tempered with pragmatism, not slaughter. As long as they retook the land swiftly, perhaps no great harm would come to these people. It was a cold calculus, but mercy had to be measured against survival in times of war.

  "General Morrison!" Pollus' voice rang out, his command snapping the man's attention away from a desperate captain who had just finished recounting their casualty numbers. "You will direct the rearguard."

  Jeremiah saw the color drain from Morrison's face, leaving him even paler than usual. The general opened his mouth as though to argue but then simply nodded, his hand moving reflexively to rest on the hilt of his sword. "It will be done, my lord," he said steadily, though his eyes betrayed the fear he could not entirely suppress. He did not beg or falter, nor did he curse the order. Instead, he turned on his heel and marched off to fulfill his final duty.

  For a moment, a flicker of respect stirred within Jeremiah. He had never thought much of Morrison, a man more accustomed to politics than war, but there was a kind of bravery in accepting a hopeless command without complaint. It was not the fearlessness of a hero; it was the grim resolve of a man who had weighed his choices and found none but death.

  Meanwhile, the hooded mage had gathered the remaining sorcerers, their hands raised toward the sky or pressed to the earth as they began layering enchantments over the city. The air thrummed with mana as one spell after another was set into motion, warding off the enemy's advance with barriers of flame, conjured chasms, and shifting fogs that would slow anyone who tried to pursue. Jeremiah could feel the magic settling over Pepperhof like a shroud. The streets would be burned, the walls toppled, and the bridges would collapse. A final defiance to ensure the rebels paid dearly for what they took.

  Jeremiah's gaze lingered on the scene for a moment, but he could not bear to watch as the mages shaped Pepperhof's death. He knew that the rebels would eventually break through even with all the enchantments and deterrents in place. They had momentum, and now the Mistress of Shadows herself was leading them. The thought made his stomach tighten with dread, and he turned away, following the Count as they pressed on further from the town.

  They marched hard, leaving behind the cries, chaos, and fear. Jeremiah steeled himself by contemplating the next steps. The eastern corps had to hold until they reached Hassel. If Volten fell before a week had passed, they would be caught in a trap, pinned between Leonard Weiss' forces and the rebels sweeping in from the east. It was a gamble—trusting Baron Langley and Luxfield, or even Count Volten, though the fat wizard was unlikely to act unless his town fell—but it was the only play left.

  Jeremiah clenched his jaw, his eyes fixed on the road ahead. Only by rallying Hassel's full strength could they hope to turn this tide, crush the rebellion, and reclaim the lands that had slipped from their grasp.