The transition was instantaneous. Shields went up, magisteel glistening. The Shard-Hides slammed into the line like physical manifestations of a landslide. The sound of clashing metal and shattering crystal filled the air.
The knights were good—extraordinarily good. They fought with a clinical detachment, their blades finding the gaps in the creatures' carapaces with practiced ease. But the Shard-Hides were relentless, and their mana-reflective shells meant that any direct spell cast at them simply bounced back at the caster.
"He's testing his men's ability to fight without magic," Jack observed. "A smart move for a man who knows he's entering a dungeon-centric theater of war."
One of the Shard-Hides, larger than the others and glowing with a sickly violet light, broke through the line. It lunged for the Marquess, its jaws opening to reveal rows of crystalline teeth.
The Marquess didn't draw a sword. He simply stomped his foot.
