The captain clenched his jaw, sweat trailing down the side of his face.
"What now, captain?" one of the lieutenants asked in a hushed, nervous voice. "We surrender… or fight?"
The captain didn't answer right away.
He stared out past the border wall—at the sea of silver glinting under the sun.
Mithril. Full plate. Thousands of knights.
Not a single gap in their formation.
And beyond them, those… things.
Those flying constructs from Armand, floating silently with glowing red orbs—watching.
He tried to swallow, but his throat was dry.
"Calculate the range," the captain muttered. "If our magic arrows and the mage squad's full-cast spells can reach that line before they cross it…"
Another soldier beside him leaned forward. "You think we can damage them?"
"No." The captain shook his head slightly. "I want to know if we can bait them. If they're just puppets, then we'll see how they move. How they respond. Buy time."
The lieutenant blinked. "So… we're fighting?"
