The cries of the wounded filled the courtyard as Gareth's troops pressed their advantage. The castle’s guards fell quickly, caught off guard by the sudden attack. With Gareth fighting at the forefront, slicing through armor and flesh alike as if he were the grim reaper, his men quickly overwhelmed the defenders. It wasn't long before the last of the resistance in the outer courtyard collapsed under Elder Wei's mace.

  Before more soldiers could pour out of the castle, Gareth decided that since they had been so efficient in the slaughter, he could afford to split their group. The ward schema lay within the highest tower, and time was their most precious commodity, since they couldn’t afford for reinforcements to box them in. Two paths diverged from the courtyard: one leading into the castle's main hall and the other winding around the outer wall to a secondary entrance. Gareth turned to Elder Wei, whose feral grin flashed white against the blood splattered on her face. She swung her mace casually, its spikes still dripping red.

  "Take the left path and secure the back entrance," he ordered, "Cut off anyone trying to reinforce from that side."

  A glint of savage delight entered the elder’s eyes. "With pleasure," she growled, hefting her weapon and thundering off toward the stairwell, the orcs and a few human soldiers following her.

  Gareth turned to the rest of his men. "With me!" he barked, then led them through the castle's inner gates. The second courtyard was larger and teemed not with soldiers but with terrified servants. Women, children, and elders scattered at the sight of armed men, screams tearing through the night as they fled toward the dark recesses of the castle.

  He let them run. They were no threat, and his task lay elsewhere.

  The castle's main entrance loomed before them, with great iron-bound doors flanked by marble columns. Gareth's boots thudded against the stone as he surged forward, his men following close behind. But the first signs of resistance appeared even before they reached the gates. Soldiers emerged from the archways and side passages, assembling hurriedly into a defensive line before the entrance.

  Gareth's steps slowed, his lips curling in faint amusement as he observed the small group trying to bar their path. The soldiers' faces were tense, but their stances were resolute. A few wore the elaborate armor of elite guards, yet it wasn't their formation or their numbers that caught his eye.

  It was the cannon they were trying to hide.

  The metal monstrosity was being rolled behind the soldiers, its barrel aimed squarely at the advancing group. Faint purple arcs of energy danced around its muzzle, charging for a shot that would tear through Gareth's men like a reaper's scythe. The sight wiped the smirk from his face.

  Without hesitation, he decided to put an end to any foolishness. Power surged through his veins with barely a push, crackling to life as a lance of violet lightning materialized in his hand, humming with deadly energy. He hurled the construct before the soldiers could react, slicing through the air with a high-pitched whine. It shot past the ranks of men, striking the cannon's charging core with pinpoint accuracy.

  The cannon erupted in a blinding flash of light, its accumulated magical energy exploding violently. A concussive blast tore through the courtyard, sending chunks of stone and metal shrapnel that shredded the flesh of anyone unlucky enough to be close. Soldiers were thrown from their feet, and the ground beneath them shuddered as the shockwave rippled outward, leaving a smoking crater where the cannon had stood.

  Gareth didn't give his enemies a moment to recover. "Finish them!" he shouted, voice rising above the cries. His soldiers leaped into action, surging forward with blades drawn, eliminating the dazed and wounded guards who had survived the explosion. The air stank of scorched metal and blood as the last of the defenders fell.

  Striding past the chaos, Gareth fixed his gaze on the looming structure ahead. The shadows' scouting had been clear—Volten's wards were controlled from a chamber high in the castle, not in the usual catacombs or basements where most cities hid such vital structures. It was an unusual choice, but it played in his favor. He gripped his spear tighter, the shaft crackling faintly with residual magic, and began ascending the spiral staircase that led to the upper levels.

  The stairwell was narrow and steep, winding upwards with no view of what lay above. Gareth sharpened his senses, straining for any hint of movement, and coiled his muscles like springs. As he reached the first landing, a trio of guards appeared, their swords and armor glowing with significant enhancements.

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  Not breaking his stride, Gareth disarmed the closest man with a single strike. He pivoted, thrusting the spear's butt into the second guard's chest with enough force to crater the stone behind him. The third guard tried to go around, ruthlessly using his companions' fate to his advantage, but before he could complete the maneuver, Gareth was already upon him, driving his spearpoint through the man's armor. The lightning he unleashed into his chest did the rest.

  His men followed behind him as he kept going up the stairs, sensing several powerful presences waiting for him.

  The spiral stairway opened into a vast hall, the walls lined with banners and tapestries depicting Volten's proud history. The remnants of Gareth's men poured into the corridor behind him, their faces grim and determined. At the far end, blocking the passage to the ward chamber, stood Count Volten himself. The portly noble's rich robes billowed slightly, embroidered in deep blue and gold, glinting faintly with the enchantments woven into the fabric. Flanking him were two knights clad in blackened steel, whose swords gleamed wickedly in the torchlight, and behind the Count stood a younger man. His defiant expression told a story of stubbornness.

  Gareth's eyes met Count Volten's, and the hall seemed to hold its breath for a heartbeat. There was no plea for mercy, no offer of surrender—only the grim acceptance of a man who knew his fate was upon him. The Count's gaze flickered to the young man at his back, and his voice, though heavy with authority, held a note of tenderness. "Gideon," he said, "take your mother and sister and go. Now."

  Gideon's expression darkened with anger. "No! I will fight at your side!" he shouted, his hand going to the hilt of his sword as though to prove his conviction. "I'm the heir! I will die by your side, father!"

  Count Volten didn't spare him another glance, and his voice hardened to steel. "Go," he repeated, the single word like a hammer striking stone. "That is an order from your lord, boy."

  For a moment, it seemed like Gideon would refuse again, but the intensity in his father's tone finally broke him. His shoulders slumped, and with one last, furious look at Gareth, he turned and ran, disappearing down a side passage. Gareth let him go without a word; the lad was no threat, and Elder Wei would ensure that no one escaped into the night.

  There is no need to tell him that, however. It would just lead to more desperate last stands, and time's of the essence now. I am strong, but even I can't take the entirety of Volten's garrison. I can take a breather as soon as the wards are down.

  Count Volten shifted, becoming much more threatening. The air around him shimmered as mana coiled and gathered with visible potency. He began to murmur a low, rhythmic chant without bothering to address the invaders. Ancient words spilled forth like the rumbling of distant thunder. Magic surged in the hall, heavy and threatening, as he prepared to deal with those who’d attack his seat.

  "Take the knights!" Gareth ordered, calling upon his own power. His men surged forward, clashing with the armored guards in a frenzy of ringing steel and shouted commands.

  Gareth lunged toward the Count, lightning crackling down the length of his spear as he closed the distance, intending to take him out before he could get started. But before he could reach him, a wave of force erupted from the Count's outstretched hand, slamming into him like a battering ram. He staggered back, his boots skidding on the smooth stone floor, and barely managed to raise his spear in time to deflect the bolt of flame that seared the air where his head had been.

  The Count pressed the attack, hurling spell after spell in quick succession—fiery whips, gusts of superheated vapor, and even constructs of flames all met their end upon Gareth's spear, but they prevented any advance. Each incantation was cast with the immense skill of a Master Mage, forcing Gareth onto the defensive. He parried and dodged, using his weapon to deflect the most dangerous attacks, but the raw power behind the spells sent jolts up his arm, numbing his grip and forcing him to expend more mana to shield himself from the heat.

  Deciding that he had been on the backfoot too long, Gareth hurled a lightning bolt at the Count, hiding it within a seemingly ordinary thrust meant to disperse a fiery eagle. The energy crackled across the distance, yet it met a shimmering barrier, deflecting off and melting the floor at the Count's feet. The mage's shield shimmered like a wall of water, rippling from the impact but holding firm.

  Gritting his teeth, Gareth pressed harder, channeling his frustration into another surge of power. He forced the Count to shift his stance, battering his defenses with one crackling bolt after another, each more intense than the last. The noble's expression remained calm, but Gareth could see the strain building in his stance, and soon, cracks started to form in his barrier.

  The battle raged all around them. Gareth could feel his men's deaths like a series of dull thuds against his consciousness—more than a few fell to the skill and savagery of the knights, who fought like men possessed to hold their ground. But he had no time to mourn or falter. The anger coursing through him only stoked the intensity of his attacks, and the lightning in his spear grew brighter and sharper.

  The Count's chanting reached a fever pitch, his voice laced with desperation as he attempted to gather enough power for a decisive blow. But Gareth saw his opportunity. With a roar, he channeled all his fury into a single, massive bolt of purple lightning. It crashed against the Count's shield, bending it inward. With a final, triumphant surge, Gareth physically broke through, and his spear lanced forward with the speed of a thunderclap.

  He found flesh, piercing through the layers of enchantment and into the Count's chest. There was a moment of silence—a heartbeat where time seemed to stop—before the spellfire fizzled from the mage's hands. Count Volten's eyes widened in shock and pain as the electric charge surged through him, lighting up his veins like cracks in glass. He convulsed, mouth open as if to scream, but no sound came. Then his knees buckled, and he collapsed to the cold stone, dead.

  The chamber was still, save for the labored breathing of the survivors and the faint hum of lingering magic. Gareth yanked his spear free from the Count's body, sparing one last glance at the fallen mage before turning to see his men still engaged with the knights.

  Taking a step forward, he pointed his spear to the two men, "You can surrender immediately and be treated as prisoners of war. I'd take it if I were you. The other option is a very painful death."

  For a moment, the two knights struggled with the decision. They were obviously important members of the household, given their valuable arms and armor. Though Gareth would have preferred their surrender, he couldn't help but feel a glimmer of respect when they firmed up and prepared to fight him.

  It still didn't stop him from throwing their charred remains from the window before breaking into the ward room.

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