"Stop him!" Agheel roared, his eyes wide with fury as he saw the breach in the camp wall.
The nearby Storm Knights threw themselves forward without a second thought. They swung their weapons in unison, unleashing a barrage of invisible, whistling air currents. The sheer force of the vacuum blades pulverized the earth and stone in their path, filling the air with a high-pitched, lethal shriek.
Among the three great orthodox sword arts of the Lands Between, the Storm Arts of Stormveil lacked the elegance of Carian sorcery or the rigid discipline of Leyndell's knightly code. However, in terms of sheer explosive power, they stood unrivaled. In a duel between equals, a seasoned Storm Knight could end a confrontation in a single, violent flurry.
But their opponent was no mere knight. Samuel was a Godskin Noble, a figure who ranked among the elite even within his own order. Only the oldest and most terrifying of their kind received the Queen's blessing to be elevated to such a status.
"Your courage is noted," Samuel hissed from beneath his hood, his voice a mocking rasp. "But your strength is beneath contempt."
As he spoke, he flicked his wrist. The Godskin Stitcher traced a perfect silver arc in the air. Where the beginning and end of the stroke met, a orb of swirling black and white flame materialized. A moment later, it exploded into a violent vortex of Black Flame, swallowing the vacuum blades and the charging knights alike.
The vortex expanded and collapsed in a heartbeat. The Storm Knights remained frozen in their charging stances, but their bodies had been reduced to charred husks. As the wind from Samuel's passage brushed past them, they crumbled into grey ash.
The path to the royal pavilion was clear.
In that desperate moment, a world-shaking roar erupted from the west. Elder Atok, struggling against three Apostles, chose to abandon his agility for raw power. He committed to a full draconic transformation. In his true dragon form, his scales were nigh-impenetrable and his strength peaked, though he became a far easier target for the nimble Godskins.
The three Apostles surrounding him lunged, driving their black-flame-imbued peeler blades into the slight openings of his transformation. They carved deep gashes into Atok's shoulders and the membrane of his right wing.
Atok let out a pained, guttural low, his crimson eyes burning with ancient ferocity. He ignored the wounds and swung his massive tail in a wide, explosive arc. The blow struck with the force of a falling star, shattering the three Apostles into a fine mist of blood. Freed from the melee, the Elder took to the sky, his wings beating back the air as he crashed down beside the pavilion, intercepting Samuel.
The strategy was simple: hold the Noble for a minute or two. Once the other warriors finished mopping up the remaining Apostles, the combined might of Agheel and Elder Morel would turn the camp into a death trap for the invaders.
Samuel did not slow down. He leaped to the side at an unnatural angle, tucking his massive frame into a ball and rolling forward like a runaway boulder. As Atok braced for the impact, Samuel's body suddenly unfurled. A shockwave of translucent energy exploded from his pale skin garments, resulting in a deafening sonic boom.
The sheer pressure of the Noble Presence sent the massive dragon sprawling backward. Within a hundred-yard radius, everything that was not protected by a divine barrier was flattened. Even the lightning-wreathed shield around Luthier's tent began to fracture and hiss.
"Is that... Noble Presence?" Inside the tent, Luthier clutched his head as blood leaked from his ears. The force of the shockwave threw him onto his back.
Before he could regain his footing, a blade wreathed in black flame punched through the fabric of the pavilion. Two swift, cross-shaped slashes followed, and the tent fell away like a sliced fruit. A pale-clad shadow leaped into view, the Godskin Stitcher moving like a blur of starlight toward Luthier's throat.
Faced with certain death, Luthier's survival instincts took command. He rolled frantically to the side, feeling the heat of the blade graze his neck. He parried a second thrust he could barely see, the impact sending a numbing jolt through his arm. The force lifted him off the ground and threw him through his writing desk.
A few paces away, Samuel drifted upward with impossible lightness. He extended his arm, the Stitcher sliding through the air as if the very fabric of space were offering no resistance. The point aimed directly for Luthier's heart.
In a last, desperate move, Luthier grabbed a scattered incense burner from the floor and hurled it at the Noble's face.
Samuel had no fear of the projectile, but he had no desire to let such a trivial toy touch him. He flicked his rapier, shattering the burner inches from his face.
Pop!
A cloud of thick, violet mist erupted instantly.
The sweet, herbal scent filled Samuel's lungs. In a fraction of a second, his mind went blank. An overwhelming, irresistible urge to sleep crushed his rational thought. To the astonishment of everyone watching, the legendary Godskin Noble plummeted to the ground like a fly swatted from the air. He twitched once, twice, and then began to snore with the force of a thunderclap.
The battlefield fell into a stunned silence. Agheel and the others froze, their expressions shifting from desperation to utter bewilderment. The remaining Apostles exchanged glances, the grotesque faces on their hoods suddenly looking like those of confused jesters.
In the center of the clearing, Luthier scrambled to his feet. He snatched the Godskin Stitcher from the sleeping Noble's hand and stood there, panting and trembling.
"Asshole," he whetted, his voice cracking. "Do you have any idea how potent a sedative made for an Ancient Dragon is?"
It was a fundamental truth of this world: the Godskin nobles, for all their power, were uniquely susceptible to sleep. Luthier's experience in his past life had held true. If it hadn't, he would have been the first demigod of the Golden Age to fall before the story even began.
A gust of wind heralded Atok's arrival. The dragon shielded Luthier with his wings while the Storm Knights swarmed the area, forming a wall of shields and spears.
"Highness, are you harmed?" Atok asked, his voice a deep rumble. Nearby, knights were already wrapping Samuel in thick, enchanted chains.
"I'm fine. Forget about me for a moment," Luthier gasped. "Put some Dragonfire Seals on those chains. Do it now!"
Atok nodded and bathed the shackled Noble in a precise stream of dragonfire. The dark metal of the chains glowed a dull, golden red. If Samuel tried to break them now, he would have to burn his own flesh through the seal first.
With the threat neutralized, Agheel and Morel stopped holding back. The remaining Apostles began a frantic retreat, vanishing into pillars of black flame after losing several more of their number. On the hill, the second Noble forced Greyoll back with a final desperate flurry before disappearing into the night.
The skirmish had lasted only minutes, but the camp looked like a war zone. The walls were shattered, and the area around the royal pavilion had been scoured clean by the Noble Presence. Bodies lay scattered among burning wreckage, some still flickering with the remnants of black fire.
Luthier looked at the carnage, his chest heaving. After a long silence, he called out two names. "Orvins. Annasia. Step forward."
The two mid-ranking Knight Captains were startled. They didn't expect the Prince to know their names. They stepped out of the ranks and saluted immediately.
Luthier looked at the two young officers. "I regret to see that Captain Kevin, who shared command with you, has fallen. I need you to recount the survivors and tend to the wounded. Reorganize the remaining knights into two units. Dispatch a detachment to escort the wounded and our fallen brothers back to Farum Azula. Is that understood?"
"Understood, Highness!" they shouted in unison.
"Now," Luthier turned to his inner circle. "Elder Morel, Agheel, Greyoll. Bring the Noble to the command tent for interrogation. Elder Atok, tend to your wounds first, then join us."
As Luthier turned and walked toward the center of the camp with a stiff, determined gait, Greyoll watched his back. Her pale blue eyes held a new, flickering light. Her impression of him had been that of a coward fleeing for safety. Yet here he was, having survived an assassination by the skin of his teeth, moving with a cold, focused clarity.
He was becoming difficult to read.