Through the haze of red mist that filled her vision, Neer spotted him—a lone figure advancing through the smoke, every step deliberate, as though the surrounding chaos couldn’t touch him. She instantly knew who it was and subconsciously widened her stance, preparing for a fight.

  General Morrison. The man who had been ordered to die to slow the revolution down.

  The man’s armor was more elaborate than she’d expected—and she had been a noble’s slave for many long years— ornate and gleaming with intricate carvings that represented the man’s House. He held a silver spear in his right hand, whose blade glowed faintly, betraying the subtle enchantments layered into the metal. He was tall and lean, almost frail compared to the brutes she had carved her way through, but the calm resolve in his eyes set Neer’s senses on edge.

  This man had made peace with his destiny, and he’d do everything in his power to fulfill his orders.

  He glanced once to the eastern edge of town, where Neer’s soldiers were currently fighting with the defenders. His eyes lingered there momentarily, but he made no move to order reinforcements or to intervene personally. Instead, he continued his measured advance toward her, shoulders squared and steps even. Whatever fear his soldiers might have felt, Morrison seemed untouched by it. There was only the faintest crease of worry on his brow, but she could recognize it as the look of someone who was evaluating their chances.

  Neer’s instincts told her to press forward, to end him quickly, yet something made her pause. She took a deep breath and willed herself to steady her power, reining in the haze of crimson that had been spilling from her blade like blood from a wound. The red mist throbbed as if sensing her desire to hold back. Slowly, it began to draw back in, pooling closer to her body in a tight, controlled aura. She almost felt it resisting her restraint, like an animal straining against its leash, but her will was unyielding and it eventually came to heel.

  Morrison came to a stop twenty feet from her. He gave her a slow, appraising nod, as if acknowledging a worthy adversary.

  “I am General Albright Morrison,” he announced. “Knight of House Morrison and loyal servant of House Hetnia. No one shall pass.”

  The statement hung in the air, simple and unyielding, like a mountain standing against a flood. Neer’s fingers tightened around the hilt of her cleaver, feeling its weight, the pulse of its mana echoing her own anticipation. This was not an enemy to underestimate. The sheer calm in his voice, in his eyes—it wasn’t the arrogance of a soldier who underestimated his opponent. It was the confidence of a man who knew the stakes very well and was prepared to fight to the death for his cause.

  She straightened, giving a slight nod of respect. “General Neer of the Glorious Revolution’s Security Forces, in direct service to the Grand Marshal and Hero of the Light, Leonard Weiss.” Her voice rang out with devotion. Even now, she still had trouble believing she was allowed to serve such a man.

  As she spoke, the red haze around her flickered with a glimmer of gold. A strange, all-encompassing warmth mingled with her energy, but she forced herself to ignore it. This was no time for distraction. She focused her gaze back on Morrison, his stance, and the steady grip on his spear. She raised her cleaver, readying herself.

  After the formalities were exchanged, a heavy silence settled over them, one final moment of calm before the storm broke. Morrison shifted, planting his feet wide and angling his spear in a neutral guard. She could see the wear in his posture, the tired lines etched into his face from decades of service. Yet his eyes burned with a determination she recognized all too well—a fire that could only be extinguished by victory or death.

  Neer suspected she could end this with brute force, could tear through him and crush whatever magic lingered in his spear with sheer power alone. But there was something about this fight and the steadfastness in Morrison’s gaze that demanded more. This would not be a brawl; it would be a duel—a test of wills as much as of strength.

  Morrison struck first, closing the distance between one breath and the next. His spear became a streak of silver, aiming for her jugular. Neer had kept her gaze on his feet for a reason and sidestepped, her cleaver rising to meet the thrust in a clash of metal. Sparks flew as the spear’s enchantment collided with the red mist encasing her blade, and the air vibrated with power.

  She twisted her grip, forcing his spear back, but Morrison flowed with the movement, bringing it down toward her exposed side.

  She blocked it with a quick flick of her wrist, shifting her stance to match his, using her weapon’s hilt to redirect the lighter spear, aiming to damage the haft. Again, it held.

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  He was fast, retreating immediately once the attack appeared unsuccessful and seamlessly launching into another strike, his footwork fluid and unbroken. It was like fighting a river—he moved around her, his spear an extension of his will, darting and weaving with incredible precision.

  But Neer was no lesser.

  She tightened her hold on her mana and let the crimson mist seep out once more, her blade flaring with raw energy as she forced him back with a powerful swing. The ground trembled as she slammed the cleaver down, sending a shockwave that cracked the earth beneath them. Morrison staggered, only for a moment, but it was enough. She followed up with a sweeping arc of her blade, the red mist trailing like a comet’s tail.

  He barely dodged, his spear deflecting her strike in a glancing blow that sent him skidding back a few paces. He adjusted, narrowing his eyes as he glanced down at where she had hit. He noticed it was the same spot she had aimed for earlier, and he shifted his stance, angling the spear toward her chest. Neer met his gaze, and for a brief, electric moment, they were locked in mutual understanding—neither would retreat nor yield.

  With a grunt, he lunged forward, aiming for her heart. Neer followed her instincts and allowed her feet to move before her brain could process, feeling the graze of the enchanted tip against her armor. She swung where she knew he would end up, and he twisted away, using his spear to push himself off her path and barely escaping whole. His movements were graceful, almost dance-like. His experience on the battlefield was second to none.

  But Neer was relentless. She advanced, gaining momentum with each swing, carving arcs of red light that inflicted jagged wounds into the ground.

  Morrison’s defenses never failed, but the calm veneer began to crack as she pressed him. He countered with a desperate thrust, but she parried, shoving him back, watching his footing falter as he was forced to avoid one of the craters she had created.

  For all the respect she felt for him and the dignity with which he was facing his death, Neer didn’t hold back. Her guiding light had ordered her to clear the path to Hassel, and by all that was holy, she would.

  Finally, as they made to engage again, Neer felt her resolve coalesce into something new. Crimson bled into gold, and new power filled her limbs, rejuvenating her and granting her enough strength that Morrison’s spear put no resistance as she cleaved it in two.

  Neer savored his disbelief. He understood that, without his weapon, he was helpless before her.

  But Morrison didn’t close his eyes or look away. He raised his chin, meeting her gaze one last time with that same unbreakable resolve.

  In the heartbeat before the final strike, Neer found herself almost admiring him, this old warrior willing to stand his ground even against impossible odds. She hoped she’d be able to die in the service of the Grand Marshal in the same way.

  Then her cleaver came down in a golden arc, and she delivered the killing blow, ending the duel.

  The battlefield fell silent.

  Neer straightened, her chest heaving, and glanced back at her soldiers as the last of Morrison’s defenders faltered. The path to Ficklewood lay open at last, and as Neer lifted her blade in victory, the haze around her flared with gold once more.

  She wasted no time, calling her officers to attention. Rallying her forces for the final push into Ficklewood, Neer scattered the remaining defenders, leaderless and shaken by Morrison’s death as they were. At this point, Neer’s advance was unstoppable, her presence a beacon for her soldiers, and together, they swept through the outskirts of the town, rooting out pockets of resistance.

  Ahead of her, the path was littered with broken barricades and hastily discarded weapons, remnants of the defenders’ failed attempts to stall her men. Every so often, a cluster of royal soldiers made a stand, but Neer’s forces made quick work of them. For the soldiers who had watched her defeat their general, any shred of courage quickly faded upon sighting her, and their attempts at resistance crumbled.

  There was no need to bring her power to bear, which was good because she still wasn’t sure of what had happened to her. It wasn’t a new Blessing; that was for sure.

  Along the town's perimeter, the orc teams she’d deployed in advance tightened their encirclement, preventing any potential escape. They hunted down every soldier who attempted to slip away. Neer repeatedly heard their rallying cries, followed by silence.

  As she pushed deeper into Ficklewood, the town fell under revolutionary control with remarkable speed. Her officers directed the soldiers to take strategic positions and the occasional stragglers were apprehended or put down. Within an hour, Ficklewood belonged to the Revolution.

  Neer surveyed the smoldering ruins of barricades and the tattered flags of House Hetnia that hung from standards. She called forth her captains and quickly assigned orders, knowing time was scarce. “Prepare the town for occupation,” she instructed. “Our soldiers need lodgings, food, and a place to regroup. The main army will arrive in a day or two—let’s make sure we’re ready for them.”

  The captains nodded and dispersed, snapping into action as they directed troops to secure buildings, check for traps, and mark spaces that could serve as temporary barracks and supply stations.

  The local civilians, who had largely stayed out of sight during the fighting, slowly emerged from their hiding places, staring at the soldiers with frightened expressions, though no one put up a fight. Neer had them ushered into the town hall under guard to avoid disruptions.

  Once she was satisfied with the arrangements, Neer approached her diviner. “I need to know where the Count is,” she asked quietly.

  The diviner closed her eyes, fingers tracing strange patterns in the air, her lips moving in silent incantation. A few minutes passed, and finally, the woman’s eyes snapped open, her voice echoing hollowly. “They’re halfway to Hassel. Fresh troops have met them on the way and are making haste back.”

  Neer’s jaw tightened, her fingers tapping against her cleaver’s hilt. This meant they were still a day’s march away. The royal army’s lead meant they would reach the city first, no matter how much she pushed her men.

  Even if we left now, we wouldn’t catch them. I might be able to if I went ahead with the orcs, but then we’d be hopelessly outnumbered.

  “Alright,” she acknowledged with a curt nod. “Now look at what’s happening in the east. I want to know if Gareth has a chance of intercepting Pollus.”

  The diviner pressed her hands together, her eyes once again clouding as she whispered an incantation. Neer watched as the woman’s face grew pale, her breath coming in short gasps. A faint trickle of blood ran from her nose, and her entire body shuddered at the effort to peer so far.

  “Volten has yet to fall,” she whispered, horrified. “I see rivers of blood and mountains of corpses.”

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