Defense on the wall…

  After the talk with the commander, Llama turned toward the approaching army.

  The foot soldiers advanced, not in a charge, but a deliberate, crawling press, like rot spreading across clean stone. He noted every misaligned plate of armor, every rusted edge and uneven gait. Their [Foot Soldiers] were an insult to form: mismatched gear, some helmets too big, others fused to flesh. Efficiency forgotten. Symmetry murdered.

  He sneered.

  “Order Three,” Llama called. Soldiers responded without hesitation, shields raised in perfect unison, a living wall formed with mathematical precision. No delay. No questions. Just order.

  Seconds later, the reason arrived.

  The air twisted with a low hum as something dark rose behind the enemy lines. Not riders, not beasts things. [Sky Reavers].

  Step 1. The sky darkens, Llama thought, enemy playing by the book.

  They burst from the ground like blighted seeds, clawing their way into the sky, wings ragged and black as spilled ink. Their forms were wrong, bones jutting at odd angles beneath desiccated skin, eyes burning with a color no order-abiding world should know. Each clutched a cursed spear, its shaft veined with glowing rot, tips twitching as if eager.

  Opening salvo.

  Of course.

  Immediately, the spears arrived. They tore from the sky in a synchronized arc, not thrown but released, like hate given shape. The sound was obscene: a thousand cords slicing air, like screaming sinew. The impact against the shield wall was thunderous. Metal screeched, soldiers staggered, and a few screams broke formation. Llama clenched his jaw.

  He despised waste.

  Given the distance, their accuracy was abysmal. Most of the cursed spears slammed harmlessly into the stone wall below or whistled high overhead like warped birds losing altitude. Only a few found shields, and fewer still stuck.

  They weren’t aiming. They were announcing.

  The [Sky Reavers] shrieked, a grating, high-pitched sound like metal bent past its limits, and conjured another round of spears from the foul mist that clung to them. Black veins pulsed along each weapon as if the spears themselves hated being held still.

  This time, they moved faster. Their formation tightened. The second volley came straighter, harder, and with intent.

  “Hold!” Llama barked, his voice like a hammer striking steel. “This is what we expected. Every spear you defend against is an XP in your pocket!” The phrase snapped through his lines like a shot of clarity. Efficient. Familiar. Motivating. “The worst is yet to come!”

  He hadn’t meant it as a prophecy. As if on cue, the ground behind the [Sky Reavers] ruptured, vomiting up another wave, this time taller, leaner, with twitching jaws and flayed skin stretched taut over elongated skulls. [Shriekers].

  Step 2, Llama thought grimly. The Screaming Begins. His teeth clenched so hard his jaw ached.

  “Prepare cleansing spells,” Fty commanded his healers. “Focus on fellow healers first, then frontline. Mages, you are on your own for now!”

  And then it hit.

  It wasn’t a sound; it was a fracture. The [Shriekers] opened their mouths, and the air broke. No words. Just raw, weaponized agony. The scream rippled outward in a pulse, invisible yet undeniable. It tore into ears, bypassed helmets, slid into the skull like a cold needle. Not damage, but disruption. Disharmony.

  Llama staggered a half-step, caught himself, but his vision wobbled. His HUD glitched. Text wavered at the edges of his view, flickering like a corrupted code. His own voice sounded distant in his ears. Muted. Underwater.

  The formation was still standing, but ragged. Shields tilted off-angle. One player buckled to his knees, his name flashing yellow. A low-level fighter screamed back, a poor imitation, and turned to run before someone grabbed his collar and yanked him back in line.

  “Focus!” Llama growled. Or tried to. His words felt like they hit cotton instead of ears. So he had rehearsed. Therefore Order 47 existed.

  He lifted his hand, three fingers held high.

  A visual signal. Backup for auditory loss. Even chaos had patterns. You just had to crush the noise until they revealed themselves.

  Another wave of spears screamed through the sky. This one found its mark. The shield wall, already staggered from the sonic barrage, faltered. Timing slipped. A single mistimed raise, a poorly aligned stance, and suddenly there were gaps.

  Gaps meant exposure. Exposure meant death.

  One spear slammed into a mage’s chest behind the line, the cursed metal punching through robes and ribs alike. She didn’t even scream, just collapsed, twitching, a red mist clinging to the air.

  Llama exhaled sharply. “Thanks, Fty,” he muttered toward the leader of front-line healers, whose white glow pulsed like a heartbeat behind the lines.

  But he didn’t have time to acknowledge more. Another cursed volley carved the sky. He turned toward the horde, toward his line, and his stomach twisted.

  Too thin. Too exposed. Too slow.

  He gritted his teeth and spat venom at the one person he wasn’t allowed to blame. The commander had pulled his reinforcements westward. Charlie. Tactical necessity or not, but damn her, she wasn’t here, and his wall was cracking.

  The next salvo struck.

  He knocked one spear away mid-flight; the shaft shattering against his braced forearm guard in a spark of corrupted steel. But to his left, Captain Merick wasn’t as fortunate. The spear struck clean his thigh, deep. The cursed wound flared with sickly black light, spreading rot and static across his armor.

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  Llama barely had time to shout before the [Shriekers] zeroed in.

  They screamed again. That awful distortion, like the air, was peeling apart, and Merick fell, hands pressed to ears, leg buckling. His nameplate blinked red. Fty’s healing wave surged across him, light cascading through veins that were already turning black.

  But another spear followed.

  It plunged down like a sentence passed by an uncaring god. It hit Merick square in the back, and that was the end.

  “Where is the anti-air?! We’re taking heavy casualties!” Llama roared toward the tower.

  Holed up in the battlements, Tramar stood, sweat soaking his robes. “Out of range! Nasty bastards are still just outside the range!” he yelled, and hurled a fire spell towards them in raw defiance.

  It bloomed before it reached the target, then ruptured like a balloon struck by needles. The explosion fizzled before it even reached the [Sky Reavers].

  Llama stared as ash rained down. They were being picked apart. Not by numbers. Not by force. But by imperfection.

  And it was unacceptable.

  “Hold the damn line!” Llama bellowed, his voice raw, shaking with the strain of being the only damn spine in this mess. “Is there anyone in this godforsaken army who can do something?! If this keeps up, we’ll be slaughtered before the ground assault even begins!”

  As if the world answered out of pity, or irony, he felt it.

  The air shifted. The ground hummed.

  Power surged, not his own, but poured into him like molten gold, warm, overwhelming, alive. It wasn’t just him. The entire front line straightened. Wounded soldiers gasped as strength returned to their limbs. Even the air smelled clearer.

  “Damn that surprising commander and her ridiculous power,” he growled, trying not to smile. But then—

  “Protect me!”

  Luminaria.

  The beautiful, brilliant, reckless woman strode forward like the battlefield was a stage and she was the lead actress of a divine opera. Sigils bloomed in the surrounding air, spinning and coiling like galaxies summoned into existence.

  Llama’s heart stopped for a half-second. She was going to cast.

  Here.

  “In the middle of a spear storm? Are you insane?” he hissed, but it was already too late. He surged forward. His body moved before thinking. Muscle memory from drills, from discipline, but not for this. He threw himself between her and the sky just as another [Sky Reaver] volley screamed down.

  A cursed spear slammed into his raised shield with a force that bent steel and crushed bone. He dropped to one knee, teeth grinding, arms shaking from the impact, but held.

  He held.

  Behind him, her spell reached its crescendo. It was like standing in the eye of a hurricane.

  Light exploded from her staff, lightning not of weather, but of will. It spiraled skyward, then snapped down like divine wrath, crackling across the heavens. [Sky Reavers] screamed as the bolts found them, ripping through their ranks with surgical precision. They fell in clusters, burning, twitching, dying.

  “Super effective,” Llama whispered, eyes wide despite himself.

  He turned to her, close. Too close. Inches from her face. He could see her eyes in detail, and she smiled, soft and apologetic.

  “Can you do it again?” he asked, voice a whisper. He was gripping discipline by the throat now, forcing it to stay.

  “Sorry,” she said. “Twenty-minute cooldown.”

  “Of course it was.” Llama exhaled, shielding her again without question.

  —

  Back to Charlie…

  When Lola first walked me through the early stages of the battle plan, I nodded like I understood. Shield walls, casters, aerial counters, easy.

  It all sounded like clean lines and clever timing. Hold against the Black Tusk formation. Endure the flying death birds. Prioritize the creepy robed guys throwing sparkly doom from the back.

  Simple.

  But now, watching it unfold from the ice tower, I finally understood the real meaning behind Mila’s “They’ll hate us” line. And I hated it too.

  Because words on parchment don’t scream. They don’t bleed. They don’t fracture under pressure or have panicked eyes when reinforcements don’t come.

  We had failed before the real assault even started.

  Princess Grace had helped a lot, but even divine fire couldn’t patch every breach. They needed backup.

  And we hadn’t given it to them.

  I grit my teeth and jumped, skating down a thin trail of conjured ice toward the cluster of mages huddled at the rear. “Master Mage Maara!” I landed beside him, my heels cracking the ice beneath me. “I need your mana. Now.”

  Maara didn’t hesitate. His eyes flicked to me, and he gave a solemn nod. “We are ready at your disposal, lady.” I could see it in his eyes, that kind of fire. The kind that didn’t flicker or waver, only burned steady, like it had something to prove.

  The mages stood at attention around a massive arcane formation carved deep into the stone, glowing softly with dormant potential. The spell circle spanned at least thirty meters across, layered with runes within runes, delicate filigrees of light crisscrossed over primal glyphs, the outer ring reinforced with angular ward-script.

  “Are you sure you can endure it for the entire cast?” I asked, my voice pitched above the low thrum of the active circle. “This is a legendary siege scroll, not some enchanted whiskey meant for party tricks.”

  Maara didn’t flinch. If anything, his spine straightened, his shoulders squaring with a quiet, deliberate pride.

  “With all due respect, lady,” he said, his tone clipped but composed, “I promised I could do it. And I do not make promises lightly.” He raised a hand, sweeping it toward the gathered imperial mages flanking the circle.

  They stood resolute, dozens of them, robes fluttering in the pulsing breeze of mana, some with weathered faces and silver brows, others young but grimly focused. All of them radiating one shared thing: commitment. A silent oath etched into the lines of their posture, the calm of their breath.

  I blinked, surprised by the sheer force of it. “Okay, okay,” I murmured, a little flustered, a little guilty. “I apologize for doubting you.”

  The blush crept in, traitorous warmth crawling up my neck. I turned slightly, under the pretense of checking the scroll again. Totally just a professional maneuver. Not because I was embarrassed or anything.

  Maara only inclined his head with the faintest of smirks, like a man who knew he’d just won a duel without drawing a blade.

  Instead of making this more awkward, I turned to the circle. At its heart, a raised platform. I stepped into the center, heels echoing on smooth stone, and conjured a tower of narrow ice beneath me, rising in a spiral to give me height, and maybe a bit of flair.

  Can’t blame a girl for wanting a view. Then I pulled it out; the legendary siege scroll.

  Not stolen. Just…temporarily borrowed with righteous purpose from the Cloud Library. The moment I unfurled it, the air shifted. The parchment hummed. Lines of golden ink shimmered like veins of starlight, and sigils danced faintly along its surface, rearranging themselves as if sensing the battlefield.

  It wasn’t a scroll; it was a warning to the world. “I’m ready, Maara!” I called down, bracing myself against the sudden gust of rising wind.

  He responded with a single nod, then barked a series of incantations that vibrated in my bones. Around him, the circle flared to life. The mages raised their staves, hands, or just focused with burning intensity, and I felt it; mana surging toward me in thick, wild threads. Like standing in a storm and daring it to hit you.

  It did.

  The mana hit me like a physical blow, a tidal wave of raw energy crashing against my senses. I gasped, staggering slightly even on my ice spire, the sheer volume of it threatening to overwhelm me.

  Gods, this isn’t like tapping into my own pool. This is trying to hold back a river with bare hands.

  I unfurled the scroll, the parchment humming against my fingertips, instantly thirsty. It drank the mana greedily, the golden lines flaring brighter, pulsing like a living heart. The air went utterly still, the sounds of the distant battle muted, replaced by the roar of power building within the circle, within me.

  Okay, Charlie. Focus. Just like exploit paths, remember? Find the weakness. Follow the flow.

  The first sigil of the scroll lit up, demanding attention.

  I reached out with my mind, my will, trying to grasp the shape of the magic, to bend it into the form required. It resisted, bucking like an untamed beast. No. Control. Breathe. I forced my concentration tighter, visualizing the rune, pouring the channeled energy into its intricate lines.

  It’s too much… The thought flickered, sharp with panic, as the mana surged again, threatening to break free. My hands trembled, the scroll vibrating violently.

  No. Hold it. For them. For the wall.

  The first rune stabilized, locking into place with a silent click that resonated deep in my bones. Relief washed over me, chased by the dawning horror of realizing that was only step one.

  There were hundreds more.

  My gaze flicked down the scroll, the complex web of magic daunting. How did anyone ever cast this? I focused on the next sequence, pulling the mana, shaping it, feeling the strain in my mind, in my very soul. It felt different from my ice magic, different from the amulet or the ring.

  This was raw creation, raw destruction, woven together.

  Like weaving frost, but the threads are fire and lightning and… something else. The power built, swirling around me, within me. It was exhilarating. Terrifying. The sheer scale of it… I could feel the potential, the raw destructive force waiting to be unleashed.

  One wrong move…

  I pushed the thought away. No room for doubt. The mages below were pouring everything into this, their faces strained, sweat beading despite the magical chill radiating from my spire.

  Rune by rune. Line by line.