The battlefield was chaos incarnate.
Steel screamed against steel, men roared in fury, demons shrieked in hunger. The ambush had swallowed the Blackthorn army whole, and though the line bent and bled, it did not break.
At its heart stood Baron Dorian Blackthorn.
His greatsword burned with a faint white flame, steady and unyielding. Every knight began with this flame — the foundation of Sword Spirit, the mark of discipline and will. White was the base upon which all colors were built. But all men knew the truth whispered in the academies: all spirit burns white, until the soul shows its truth.
For now, Dorian's truth remained hidden.
"Hold!" he roared, cleaving through a snarling fiend, ichor spraying hot across his armor. His voice thundered like an iron bell. "Push them back!"
The men obeyed. Shields locked, spears thrust, the thorned banner snapped defiantly in the fog. Even as bodies fell and screams tore the air, the line held.
The mist thickened.
A towering figure stepped forward, casting the lesser demons into silence. Armored in rune-carved bone, glaive burning with black fire, it advanced with slow, deliberate steps.
A general.
Its guttural voice rumbled across the field. "Bloodthorn. Tonight your wall crumbles."
Dorian's scarred face was set like stone. He raised his blade, the white fire hissing faintly in the mist. "You'll find me harder to break than stone."
The glaive swung.
The first clash cracked the earth. Black fire slammed into white flame, sparks exploding outward, the shockwave hurling men and demons alike to their knees.
Dorian braced, muscles straining as the glaive bore down with monstrous weight. His boots sank deep into the mud, his teeth bared with effort. With a roar, he shoved the glaive wide and countered, his blade smashing across the monster's armor and leaving a glowing gouge.
The general snarled, laughter bubbling low. "Is this all?"
The white flame flickered. Dorian's chest heaved. His men faltered, watching their baron pressed back for the first time.
He closed his eyes for a heartbeat. Drew deep. And let his soul ignite.
The white fire blazed brighter, then deepened—flaring into a brilliant emerald blaze that roared along the greatsword's edge.
Men gasped. Demons recoiled. The Wall of Blackthorn had bared his true strength.
The general's helm tilted. "So. The green knight bares his fangs."
Dorian's eyes gleamed with the same emerald fire as his blade. His voice thundered: "I am the wall. And the wall does not fall."
He charged.
Emerald and black fire collided in a storm of sparks. Every strike shook the ground, gouged the mud, and split the fog. The glaive swept wide, carving through men in its path. Dorian met it head-on, his blade slashing down with the fury of decades of battle.
The general stabbed, its glaive spearing for Dorian's heart. He twisted, catching it on the flat of his sword, then kicked hard into the monster's chest, forcing it back a step.
The army roared, courage swelling with their baron's defiance.
The glaive whistled down for his skull. Dorian ducked low, emerald sparks hissing as it scraped his pauldron, then surged upward with a brutal arc that smashed into the general's helm.
Bone cracked. Black ichor sprayed.
The beast reeled, howling, but Dorian did not relent. His blade blurred in emerald light, carving deep across its shoulder, splitting armor, tearing into flesh. Black ichor poured like tar.
The glaive lashed out one final time, stabbing through Dorian's side. He roared in pain, blood spraying, but seized the shaft in one hand, dragging the monster closer. With the other, he raised his greatsword high.
Emerald fire roared as he brought it down.
The strike cleaved helm, skull, and spine.
The demon general split in two, collapsing into the mud, its black flames guttering into smoke.
The battlefield fell silent for a heartbeat.
Then the men roared, their voices shaking the fog. "Blackthorn! Blackthorn!"
Dorian staggered, blood running down his side, his armor cracked and steaming. He planted his sword in the earth, emerald fire still blazing, and raised his fist high.
"The wall holds!" he bellowed.
The army thundered it back, louder, stronger, until the mist itself trembled:
"The wall holds!"
The Blackthorn host had paid dearly, but their baron had stood against a demon general and prevailed. His green flame still burned, fierce and unyielding, proof that the border of Arathor would not fall this day.