After the battle, a grim silence falls over the camp. Amazel moves among the fallen, her face an unreadable mask. She places a hand on each of the forty-one corpses, and a rime of supernatural frost instantly flash-freezes the bodies, preserving them perfectly.
With a wave of her staff, the earth opens to receive its sombre burden. "We will return for them," she vows, her voice cutting through the heavy air. "They will be honoured in the Central Lands, not left to rot in this accursed forest."
The second day's march takes them across a barren, windswept plain. Death Worms, sensing their passage, erupt from the sand. But the trials of the forest have forged the legion. Their movements are sharp, coordinated, and instinctive. Before the massive worms can fully surface, coordinated strikes from vanguards and pinpoint spells from mages sever their nerve clusters, leaving them twitching in the dust. They march on without a single casualty, a silent testament to their hardened resolve.
On the third day, the jagged peaks of the sharp edges of the Spine Mountains loom before them. As they begin their ascent, a rain of boulders cascades down from the cliffs above. Amazel, anticipating the ambush, is already moving. 'Aegis Maxima!' A colossal, shimmering dome of energy materialises over the climbing column, deflecting the projectiles. High above, Julie's scouts, who had scaled the opposite face under the cover of illusion magic, descend on the ambushers. The enemy spies are captured before they can flee. Justice is swift and merciless. They are forced to drink a viscous, green venom that induces agonising muscle seizures before Julie's team binds them to the very boulders they meant to use, leaving them to the elements and the slow, painful embrace of death.
When they finally crest the mountain and look down upon Seb-ath's territory, a collective shiver runs through the army.
"We make camp here," Amazel declares, her voice ringing with finality. "We rest tonight. Tomorrow, we end this. Julie, scout the perimeter. I want the approaches to this valley littered with surprises for our host."
In a blink, the scout unit vanishes into the rocky terrain. The camp that night is a model of paranoid efficiency. No fires are lit. The meal is cold rations, hardtack and dried jerky. Every soldier takes watch, their eyes scanning the darkness, expecting an attack that never comes. The silence is more unnerving than any assault.
The next day, they march into the valley, across the field, Seb-ath's forces await a disciplined wall of scale-armoured warriors, their green banners snapping in the wind. Battle horns blare from both sides. Amazel's vanguard charges on her signal. Mages launch volleys of fire and ice.
But the enemy line does not advance. Instead, as the vanguard closes the distance, the front ranks of Seb-ath's army part. A wave of despair washes over Amazel's forces. Before them, tied together and shoved into the path of the charge, are dozens of women and children, their mouths gagged, their eyes wide with terror.
"HALT! HALT THE ADVANCE!" Amazel's roar is frantic.
The charge collapses into chaos. Front-line soldiers skid to a stop, only to be slammed into by the ranks behind them who cannot see the horror ahead. In that moment of confusion and moral crisis, Seb-ath's true front ranks archers positioned behind the human shield release a withering hail of arrows into the disorganised mass.
'Glacial Lance!' Amazel screams, spearing a cluster of archers. "Gobuka! Tylon! Reform the line! Protect the captives!"
The two commanders fight like demons, carving a space to pull some of the prisoners to safety. But the damage is done. The tactical advantage is lost. Seeing her forces being systematically cut down, Amazel makes the only choice she can. "RETREAT! SIGNAL RETREAT!"
A red flare arcs into the sky. As her army peels back, the enemy surges forward, eager to pursue only to be met by a landslide of boulders triggered by Julie's scouts on the high cliffs. The path is cut, saving the retreating army from annihilation.
Back in camp, the mood is funereal. They were not just defeated, they were humiliated, outmanoeuvred by a foe with no honour. Amazel slams her fist onto the map table, the wood cracking under the blow. "We lost forty per cent of our force to kill a fifth of theirs! And even that was mostly from traps!"
BOOM!
The world is torn apart. A deafening explosion erupts from the centre of the camp, precisely where the medical tents and the rescued captives were housed. Amazel is running before the debris stops falling. 'Torrential Rain', she shrieks, summoning a localised deluge to dodge the spreading flames.
Soldiers scramble through the smouldering wreckage, pulling out bodies. Among them is Amar, his robes shredded and soaked in blood. Amazel drops to her knees, hands glowing with golden light as she casts 'Greater Heal'. Other healers join her. After a long, terrifying moment, Amar coughs, a trickle of blood staining his lip as his eyes flutter open. A wave of relief washes over those gathered, but it is short-lived. Others were not so lucky. Sixteen healers and all the refugees are dead, many torn apart beyond recognition.
Later, in Amar's tent, Amazel listens, her expression cold. "Their stomachs... they began to glow with a red light," he rasps. "I felt the energy building, something vile. I shouted for everyone to run... but it was too fast. It was just like the bombing on the street... but we brought the bombs into our very heart."
Amazel offers a thin, terrifying smile. "Rest." Outside, the calm mask shatters. Inside, her soul fractures. 'My mercy did this. My compassion is a weapon he used against me. No more.' The grief and rage within her don't fade. They compress, solidifying into a diamond-hard core of absolute resolution. Her aura, once warm and commanding, now radiates a palpable, chilling intensity.
The next morning, the army assembles. A different energy crackles among them, a shared, simmering fury for lost friends and lovers. Amazel stands before them, and the air grows cold.
"Today, I give you no complex orders. I set you no rules of engagement." Her voice is low, yet it carries to every soul, dripping with icy promise. "I only give you one command: show no mercy. Not to them, and not to yourselves. If you hesitate, I swear by all the hells, I will become the worst nightmare you have ever known."
Her power flares, a wave of psychic pressure that makes the bravest soldier gasp. The silence is absolute, until Gobuka steps forward, his face a grimace of rage. "WE. WILL. NOT." The army's roar of agreement is a thing of raw, savage sound.
On the battlefield, the scene is a grim mirror of the previous day, but the atmosphere is utterly transformed. Seb-ath's army unleashes its poison gas. Amazel and Sylphy simply gather the cloud and hurl it back with a gust of wind. The enemy, prepared with masks, advances unscathed.
Then, a figure erupts from Amazel's ranks. "YOU HURT MY BEST FRIEND!" Elfir howls, his body transforming into a meteor of deep crimson energy. He ploughs into the enemy's heart, and the world dissolves into fire. The poisons he's woven into his spell act as a horrific accelerant, making the flames cling and melt flesh and armour alike. "HAHAHA! THIS IS HOW YOU PLAY WITH FIRE!" His maniacal laughter fuels the other fire mages, who become living artillery, unleashing their power without restraint.
The battle descends into beautiful, brutal chaos. There are no lines, only pockets of vengeance. Gobuka is a whirlwind of death, each swing of his sword claiming a life. Then, a blur of motion. A searing coldness. He stares, uncomprehending, as his own severed hand, still gripping his sword, tumbles through the air. He barely feels the pain, his eyes already locking onto the figure before him, a wispy spectre with bladed arms and a featureless grey mask.
The Sword Ghost has arrived.