One of the hooded disciples collapses to the floor, eyes rolled back and foaming at the mouth. Soon, two others suffer the same fate and end up unconscious. Arrax grits his teeth, feeling the Dungeon Core siphon a gargantuan amount of Ether. The mage's mind falters for a moment, and only through sheer willpower does he manage to stay awake and focused.
"You, take their place!" Arrax orders the disciple who had opened the Imp's cage. She nods and, with a certain nervousness reflected in her clumsy steps and gestures, drags one of her downed companions away to position herself inside the ritual circle. The moment she channels her Ether, the woman feels the crystal violently tug at her magical power, nearly making her fall flat on her face.
King Marc and his retinue stare up at the high vaulted ceiling of the core room, though their attention and imagination reach much higher. Everyone is tense with uncertainty. For a moment, Hilda is tempted to send one of her soldiers to check outside, but she abandons the idea, believing that dividing their forces would be a fatal mistake.
Outside the castle, Lynel falls to the ground, his face contorted, sweating cold, and clutching what is left of his left arm: a bleeding stump below the elbow. Near the third captain's legs lies his staff, with the arm still attached to it. Under the threshold of the entrance to the inner wall, a dark elf with half her head shaved flashes him a sadistic smile while pointing a longsword at him.
"I like older men. Surrender, and I'll keep you as my pet," the elf offers.
Although the proposition is an absolute insult to Lynel, the man maintains his tempered character and spits on the side of the cobblestone path. He then plants his only hand and makes an effort to stand up.
"A true warrior always seeks the opportunity to die on his feet," Lynel asserts between pants of pain and exhaustion.
"Maybe I should cut your tendons... But our orders were to raze with speed and brutality," the elf says, taking a step forward, ready to skewer Lynel with a thrust.
The captain's legs barely respond, the same goes for his remaining arm; his body is pushed far beyond its limits. He closes his eyes to wait for the final blow. In his mind, he apologizes to the kingdoms for not being strong enough, and to his granddaughter for being unable to watch her grow. He also asks forgiveness from his comrades, who he bets are still fighting to their last breath.
He will die fighting. That will be his consolation.
"Hm...?" Lynel is puzzled when seconds pass and the strike still doesn't come. Opening one eye, he sees an arm and a leg protruding from the stone. The limbs lose all trace of tension and go limp, the fingers dropping the plenilunium sword.
Lynel, slack-jawed, slowly looks up, unable to find an end to the wall.
An aquamarine, then white, glow overtakes the three walls. For a moment, the walls seem made of malleable energy, shifting and growing. Rustic stone, as old as the world itself, devours the watchtowers and the arches of the thresholds. The same happens to the giant exterior reliefs honoring history with the sculpted forms of previous kings—figures that end up replaced by broad, unadorned stone, like the faces of primeval cliffs.
The walls grow so massive that their shadows seem to turn day into night, and the cyclopes find it impossible to clear the height with their thrown projectiles, barely grazing the summit.
The riders' faces shift from fierce enjoyment to sheer terror. What a second ago was a breach is now jagged, black rock, solid as a mountain. Those leading the march pull back on the bicorns' reins and try to brake, but the beasts' momentum is impossible to arrest in such a short window of time.
The bicorns smash into the wall, some with such force that their heads dislocate or burst. The riders suffer a similar fate, and the dozen elves who manage to survive the impact thanks to their plenilunium armor are soon crushed by the riders coming from behind. The thunder of horse hooves transforms into the crunching of metal and the tearing of flesh, along with shouts of warning and desperate corrections. Finally, it turns into a wet squelch dominated by the curses and sobs of the severely wounded.
More than 50 riders died, and about 70 ended up too injured to continue. Those at the tail end of the charge were left far too dismayed and confused about what had just happened, opting to retreat.
Moonsong watches the scene through her spyglass, surprise and horror dominating her beautiful face.
From high above, an invisible spectator lets out a victorious laugh that no one can hear.