For a heartbeat, Hilowat and Miyako locked eyes—shock, relief, and disbelief passing between them in an instant.
Then Hilowat's voice roared across the battlefield:
"ADVANCE! COVER THE SUPREME COMMANDER WITH YOUR LIVES!"
The Imperial Knights and Bloodfrost warriors surged forward as one, shields locked, blades raised. They drove into the Orc tide like a spear, carving a path toward the breach where Mikhail stood.
Mikhail didn't retreat.
He planted his feet in the rubble, one arm hanging useless at his side, the other gripping his sword. Orcs closed in around him from all sides.
He fought anyway.
One-handed, injured, half-buried in debris—he fought. His blade flashed, parrying a crude axe, redirecting the momentum into a throat-cut. An Orc lunged from his blind side; Mikhail twisted, driving his pommel into its skull with a wet crunch.
All while dragging the unconscious Telepath behind him with his broken arm, refusing to let go.
Miyako reached him first.
Her blade was a blur of silver light. Two Orcs died before they even realized she was there, their heads rolling across the stones. She stepped in front of Mikhail, her back to him, creating a wall of steel between him and the horde.
The soldiers crashed in behind her, forming a defensive ring. Shields slammed together, spears thrust outward in unison. The Orcs recoiled, snarling, unable to break through.
Hilowat grabbed Mikhail's arm, trying to pull him upright, to carry him if necessary.
"My Lord, just hold on—we'll get you back to—"
"No." Mikhail's voice was iron. He shoved the unconscious Telepath into Hilowat's arms. "Keep him alive. I'm not letting this bastard die yet."
"But my Lord, you're injured—"
Mikhail pushed against Hilowat's grip, forcing himself upright. Pain lanced through his ribs. He ignored it.
"Shut up." His eyes burned with defiant fury. He raised his voice, amplified by sheer force of will:
"SOLDIERS! ADVANCE! DEFEND THE BREACH! DO NOT LET A SINGLE SCUM THROUGH THOSE WALLS!"
The effect was electric.
The Eldrathian soldiers who had been fleeing—terrified, broken, certain of death—stopped.
They turned.
Their Supreme Commander was alive. Bloodied, yes. Injured, yes. But standing. Fighting.
If he could stand, so could they.
They rallied. Weapons were raised. War cries erupted. The fleeing soldiers turned into a counter-charge, crashing back into the Orcs with renewed fury.
The Imperial Knights and Bloodfrost warriors drove hard toward the breach, sealing the gap. The flood of Orcs pouring through slowed to a trickle as bodies piled up in the opening, choking the advance.
The Orcs already inside found themselves trapped—cut off from reinforcements, surrounded on all sides. They died screaming.
On the far side of the battlefield, Maximus and the Golden Pike fought their way toward the rear, executing a fighting retreat with cold precision.
Then Maximus saw him.
Mikhail. Alive. Standing in the rubble. Leading.
Maximus's expression darkened. His jaw clenched.
For a long moment, he stared across the carnage.
Then he turned to his men, voice cutting through the chaos:
"Golden Pike—change of orders! Advance! Support the Imperial rear flank!"
The mercenaries hesitated for only a heartbeat. Then they turned, driving back into the fray.
Miyako fought beside Mikhail, her blade carving through the Orcs pressing in from all sides. But even as she killed, her eyes flicked to him—checking, always checking, making sure he was still standing.
"My love," she said, breathless, her voice tight with emotion. "I want to hold you right now."
Mikhail parried an Orc's swing, redirected it into another's chest, and flashed her a bloodied smirk.
"I told you, didn't I?" His voice was rough, strained, but unbroken. "These scum don't have what it takes to kill me."