The air was thick with the scent of blood and victory. The enemy's elite cavalry, a force of 2,000 men, had been shattered. Arion, leading the allied cavalry, a wave of steel and vengeance, had delivered the hammer blow, catching them in a pincer that turned their charge into a chaotic, bloody rout. The ground was littered with the bodies of men and horses, a grim testament to the Vexin's tactical genius.
Damon, standing at the head of his infantry, did not celebrate. He saw the enemy's main infantry—a massive force of 6,000 foreigners and 2,000 royal guards—now without their cavalry support, their morale a fragile thing in the face of their sudden defeat. This was their moment of weakness, and Damon would not let it pass.
"For the Vexin!" he roared, his voice a primal sound of fury and defiance. "For our people! For our fallen!"
The Vexin infantry, a single, unified force, charged. Their shield wall was gone, replaced by a tide of pure, unadulterated rage. Lord Eran, his own forces now a part of this unstoppable wave, fought beside Damon, his sword a blur of motion. Arion, his cavalry now regrouped, crashed into the enemy's flanks, turning their ranks into a chaotic, unorganized mess.
The King's guards, a disciplined and loyal force, tried to hold their ground, but they were no match for the Vexin's fury. Their ranks broke, and the battle became a desperate, one-sided rout. The foreign soldiers, fighting for coin and not a cause, were the first to break and run, their fear spreading like a plague through the remaining army. The mountain pass became a killing ground, a chaotic symphony of steel on steel and the desperate screams of a defeated army.
From her vantage point, Isolde, her face a mask of cold calculation, watched as the last of the King's army was shattered. The battle was over. The Vexin had won. The tactical masterpiece, born from the mind of Damon, had worked with a terrible, beautiful precision. The sacrifice of the 200 men had bought them their victory.
As Damon stood on the bloodied battlefield, a messenger arrived, his face a mask of exhaustion and grief. He did not need to speak. The news was written on his face. The 200 men had fought to the last, holding off the mercenaries until their last breath. They had paid the ultimate price, and their sacrifice had made this victory possible.
The triumph of the Vexin's main force was a grim and hollow thing. The cheers of victory died in the soldiers' throats as the news spread. The 10,000 mercenaries, a brutal and bloodied force, had finally broken through the pass. The Vexin had defeated the King's army, but a new, more terrible threat was now upon them. The war, a war that had just claimed the lives of 200 heroes, was far from over.