....
Jasmijn didn't hesitate—she threw her arm forward with a sharp, cutting motion.
WHOOOOM—
A roaring gale burst from her palm like a cannon, slamming into Elara's side before the woman could fully register the Calvary's awakening in the distance. Elara's body pinwheeled violently across the battlefield, armor scraping against torn earth and crushed grass until she dug in hard, stopping in a low crouch. Dirt splashed around her boots. Her hair, once perfectly bound, now whipped chaotically in the wind.
A snarl twisted her face—pure, feral frustration.
And that one moment—the sight of the notorious Plugish commander stumbling—ignited the battlefield like oil hitting flame.
The Valdyrians roared.
The remaining Plugish soldiers panicked, turning to both shield Elara and hold off the surge, but the momentum had violently shifted. Despite the exhaustion in their limbs, despite the cuts staining their cloaks and armor, Valdyr's forces surged forward with renewed fire. Something about the Drenmarch's arrival made them feel invincible.
Steel clashed.
Mud churned beneath sprinting boots.
Arrows whistled overhead.
For the first time in hours, the Plugish troops were outnumbered—and they felt it.
At the shoreline, standing atop a shattered piece of driftwood like an old war statue carved from stone, Jasmijn's grandfather drew his saber with his unmaimed hand. The blade gleamed under the moonlight, battered but far from broken.
He raised it high.
"CHAAAAARGE!!!"
His voice was thunder rolling across the tide.
"DON'T LEAVE A SINGLE PLUGISH SOLDIER ALIVE!!!"
The cry rattled the cliffs, rattled the very bones of those who heard it. From the distant dunes came the answering war cry of the Drenmarch battalion, reinforcements racing across the coast in formation—armor glinting, banners snapping. The sheer sound of them was enough to shake loose stones from the cliffside.
Plugish soldiers hesitated.
Some faltered.
Some outright turned—fear cracking their formation.
Elara's right hand managed to force his way through clashing blades and panicked shouts. He stumbled to her side, breath ragged, helmet tilted from a blow.
"Commander—we're outnumbered. We need to retrea—"
"WE ARE NOT RETREATING!!!"
Her voice exploded across the field with such fury he flinched as if struck.
When his gaze rose to hers, he staggered back a half step. Her pupils were dilated, trembling with madness and rage. Blood matted her hair. Her jaw clenched so tightly a vein pulsed up her temple.
She looked less like a commander…
…and more like an animal cornered, fangs bared, desperate to bite even if it meant dying with her teeth broken.
All around them, the Plugish line was collapsing.
But Elara stood trembling, gripping her blade so hard her knuckles blanched white, her breath sharp and ragged.
She had gone off the deep end—and her soldiers saw it.
Elara's breath came in ragged bursts, fury shaking her frame as she rose to her feet. Her pupils quivered, wild and unfocused. She thrust her palm out toward the chaos—toward a cluster of exhausted villagers who had taken up arms to defend their home.
Among them, the boy from Mournstead—barely 13—stabbed wildly with nothing but a bent pitchfork. His hands trembled, but his stance never broke.
Elara's lips curled into a chilling smile.
Her Codex began to ignite. The very air around her warped, tugged toward her palm.
The villagers froze, bracing for death.
But just as the energy peaked—
SHING—
A silver flash.
A streak of motion too clean, too sharp to follow.
Elara blinked.
Her smile faltered.
Her wrist felt light.
A spray of hot crimson arced across the air, splattering into the mud.
Her hand—still glowing with incomplete Codex force—
hit the ground beside her.
A beat.
A single heartbeat of silence.
Then—
"AAAGHHHHH!!"
Elara's scream tore through the battlefield like a wounded animal's death cry, raw and primal. She staggered back, clutching the jagged stump of her forearm as blood pooled between her fingers.
Standing before her, saber drawn and dripping with her blood—
Solas.
Moonlight skimmed across his expressionless face, the silver in his blade still humming from the speed of the cut.
Elara's scream broke into a furious snarl. She lunged at him, her sword whipping in a wide, desperate arc.
Solas didn't even flinch.
One step. One breath. One clean motion.
SHRRKK—
His blade carved diagonally across her torso, from shoulder to hip—clean, decisive, merciless.
Elara froze mid-swing.
Her eyes widened, pupils shrinking.
For a moment, it looked as if she might try another strike.
But her knees buckled first.
She collapsed into the mud, sword slipping from her fingers with a dull clang. The battlefield seemed to inhale at once—the fall of a Commander doing what the arrival of Drenmarch troops had already begun:
breaking Plugish spirit.
Her right-hand soldier, seeing her fall, felt his chest seize with panic. His voice cracked into a scream that cut through the sound of clashing steel:
"RETREAT!!! RETREAT!!! EVERYONE FALL BACK!!!"
Plugish soldiers didn't wait.
They scattered in every direction—tripping over shields, abandoning weapons, shoving each other aside as Valdyr's forces and Drenmarch warriors closed in.
Some begged.
Some ran.
Some died before taking five steps.
The momentum had turned into a tidal wave—and Plugish troops were drowning beneath it.
Elara lay on her side, breath shallow. Mud smeared half her face, sticking to the sweat and blood. Her eyes remained open, but dimming.
Her lips parted.
"…Edgar…"
The whisper barely left her throat.
Her gaze fixed on nothing, growing glassy.
As the fighting continued around her—Drenmarch blades cutting survivors down, Valdyr freedom fighters advancing with vengeance-driven precision—the last glint in Elara's eyes guttered like a candle running out of wick.
The battlefield moved on.
Plugish forces were being driven out, scattered like leaves in a storm.
And Elara—once feared, once unshakeable—lay still in the mud as the end of her army unfolded around her.
From the deck of the Plugish warship, the silver-haired man steadied his monocle with trembling fingers. Through the round glass, the shoreline came into dreadful focus—Plugish soldiers scattering, their lines broken, their retreat devolving into slaughter. Valdyr's battered warriors and the Drenmarch reinforcements carved through them without mercy. Hope hadn't just slipped away; it had been ripped out by the roots.
"...Shit," he muttered, stepping back as if the sight itself threatened to swallow him whole.
He spun around, raking both hands through his hair, pacing before he collided with a young Plugish soldier that was behind him. The impact jolted him—his eyes flicked up at the soldier, then away, then back again as the panic settled into something cold.
"Tell the captain to pull the anchor up. We're done here."
The soldier's expression froze.
"B—But what about Commander Edgar and Voss? What do we tell—"
"We lost."
The silver-haired man snapped, voice cracking under the strain.
"The mission to take Valdyr and retrieve the forbidden child has failed. Now tell the captain to lift the damn anchor!"
His shout whipped across the deck. The soldier flinched, then bolted off.
Crewmen threw their weight into the long oars, turning the vessel away from the shore. Wood groaned as the rudder shifted, the ship reluctantly accepting its retreat.
On land, the remaining Plugish soldiers saw the vessel pulling away—abandoning them. Even over the roar of battle, the betrayal was unmistakable.
Elara's right hand officer stared in horror. "WAIT—! I'M STILL HERE! DON'T—"
His cry was cut short.
Steel punched clean through his chest from behind.
He stiffened, breath hitching, and collapsed to his knees before tumbling lifelessly onto the muddied ground.
Behind him stood Jasmijn's grandfather, saber dripping red, eyes as cold as the steel he held. He surveyed the fleeing ship with a disdainful snort.
"Pluganders,"
he muttered, voice gravel-deep and merciless.
"Always hightailing it when the going gets tough."
Around him, Valdyr's warriors and drenmarch soldiers alike surged past—making sure none of the retreating Plugish were granted mercy.
Smoke still drifted across Valdyr like mourning veils, the air thick with the scent of char and seawater. Jasmijn Valdyr's Six moved through the ruined village beside Solas, stepping over shattered beams and embers that still crackled beneath their boots. Homes were burned to ribs and skeletons; the land itself looked wounded.
Solas exhaled, shoulders sagging.
"Ancestors… they gutted us."
Before the weight of it could crush him, a hand landed gently on his shoulder. Jasmijn's.
"The Drenmarch will help you rebuild," she said, steady and sure.
"We'll do whatever we can."
Solas's breath hitched, and though exhaustion lined his face, he managed a small, grateful smile.
"Thank you."
Around them, Charolette scanned every group of survivors who limped or staggered across the clearing. Her fingers twisted anxiously at the hem of her sleeve; her eyes kept darting toward the treeline as though willing someone to appear.
Where are they…?
Then—movement in the distance.
A shape emerged from the haze. Then two. Her breath caught.
Chauncey.
Zayn walked beside him, battered but upright, while Chauncey carried a limp figure over his back—Juniper, unconscious but alive.
Charolette broke into a run, tears blurring the edges of her vision.
"Guys!"
He barely had time to brace before she slammed into him, arms wrapped tight around his torso. He staggered, letting out a soft wheeze, but his hand came up to pat her back, relief leaning heavy in his posture.
Zayn watched the embrace with a grin tugging at his lips.
"Looks like someone missed you."
Chauncey blinked at him, still trying to gather his bearings.
"Wait—did we win?"
Zayn gestured around: Drenmarch soldiers distributing water, tending to wounds, and dousing the last of the flames; Valdyr warriors hugging survivors; Jasmijn offering clipped orders, her presence forming a pillar of calm in the chaos.
"Yes," Charolette said, nodding toward Jasmijn with a mock flourish.
"The Drenmarch arriving sure was a clutch."
Jasmijn noticed them looking. She gave a small, knowing smile that Zayn returned before shifting to help a fallen elder.
For the first time since the invasion began, the island exhaled.
The battle was won.