The last messenger eagle spiraled down into the sun-baked badlands of the southwest.
Even among the locals a tough people known for regularly clearing seven feet the province's resident Paladin was a titan. Ser Duncan the Tall was an imposing eight feet of muscle and boisterous energy. He stood in the heart of the wasteland, his bare fists wrapped in the blinding, golden glow of his mana. With a booming laugh, he drove a punch into a solid boulder, atomizing it into fine grit. His actual weapon, a hulking war-hammer, lay forgotten in the dirt.
"Duncan!" a voice cut through the crunch of settling stone. "It's baking out here. Can we please head back?"
Duncan paused, wiping a forearm across his sweaty brow. "Just give me a minute, Claire! A few more boulders, then we'll pack it in."
"You've been saying 'a few more boulders' for two hours," his Vice Commander called back.
Claire Bell stood nearby, wrapped in a heavy black cloak that draped to her knees, looking thoroughly unimpressed. Beneath it, she wore dark shorts and scuffed leather boots. "Besides, you're making too much noise," she scolded. "Don't draw out anything nasty. I'm really not in the mood to fight."
Duncan groaned, his giant shoulders slumping in defeat. "Alright, alright."
A shadow crossed the dirt. Claire looked up, spotting the diving eagle just in time to catch it gracefully on her forearm. She untied the parchment from its leg and passed it up to her towering Lord.
Duncan scanned Kent's letter, a wide, eager grin spreading across his jaw. "Now this is interesting. It's been a while since I've seen the others. I want to spar with that cat-girl and Ulric Stone! They pack a real punch. Come on, Claire, let's go!"
They turned to leave, but a low, rattling buzz began echoing off the canyon walls.
From the cracks in the stone poured a swarm of badland flies—blood-suckers the size of hunting hounds, making a beeline straight for the noise.
Claire sighed. "I told you."
In a flash, she launched herself upward, landing lightly on Duncan's massive shoulder. With a flick of her wrists, the heavy cloak fell open.
Clink. Clink. Heavy steel chains, coated in swirling, dense mana, shot from her sleeves like striking vipers. She leaped from Duncan's shoulder into the swarm. The chains whipped around her in a lethal, high-speed cyclone, shredding the giant insects to pieces in seconds.
She landed softly, the chains already retracting into her sleeves as she pulled her cloak shut.
Duncan threw his head back and laughed. "Good warm-up! To the Capital!"
Far to the north, Oakhaven was tearing itself apart.
"Enemies in the woods!" a mage shrieked from the perimeter.
Panic seized the village. Captain Krag and Sergeant Vane hauled on their iron armor as they shouted orders, herding terrified villagers toward the sturdy stone watchtower in the square. The village's four mages scrambled up the tower steps to secure the roof.
In the dark woods beyond the treeline, hundreds of glowing yellow eyes blinked open.
"Vane!" Krag roared over the din. "Take a detachment and hit the first wave head-on! I'm taking the rest to flank them!" He ordered his remaining cavalry to form a ring of steel around the tower's base.
But this horde wasn't just mindless infantry; they'd brought their own twisted shamans. Crackling, sickly fireballs launched from the trees, arcing toward the stone tower. On the roof, the human mages threw up desperate, shimmering shields, detonating the fiery artillery in mid-air.
Down in the mud, arrows rained in. Three cavalrymen went down instantly. The rest ignited their blades with white mana, slashing wildly at the sky to knock the jagged shafts off course.
Heavily muscled horde infantry broke from the trees next, rushing the tower in a furious charge. A few cavalrymen broke formation to meet them, nearly sprinting directly into a trap the enemy shamans had already seeded the mud with explosive runes.
But before the horde could crush the final defenses, a blinding flash of white mana erupted from the treeline behind the enemy lines.
Krag had made his flank. He'd feigned a retreat, only to circle through the deep woods and ambush the horde's backline, carving through their dark mages.
"Hold the line!" Krag roared, his horse rearing, his blade slick with blood. "We win this!"
"Yes, sir!" the cavalry screamed back, finding a second wind.
"Reinforce Vane!" Krag yelled, pointing with his sword. "The rest of you, hold this tower. Do not let them inside!"
A massive fireball detonated near Krag, spooking his warhorse. He steadied the beast, glaring at a second wave of shamans stepping from the shadows. "Take down those magic-users. Move!"
Across the village, Vane was fighting like a man possessed. He'd already lost a handful of men, leaving only a small, exhausted squad at his back.
Suddenly, a devastating blow slammed into his shield, launching him off his feet and flat into the mud.
Gasping for air, Vane looked up. Towering over him was a scarred, hulking troll. It wasn't wielding a sword it gripped an entire uprooted pine tree like a club.
If I don't kill him now while I have breath, he'll level the tower, Vane realized, his heart hammering against his ribs.
He forced himself out of the mud, drawing both short swords. Flooding the blades with every ounce of his white mana until they burned like torches in the dark, Vane let out a desperate cry and sprinted straight at the giant.
Meanwhile, miles away on the main road, Lord Kent wrenched his warhorse to a halt.
A splinter group of the horde—thirty vicious, heavily armed goblins—blocked the path. Kent weighed his options for barely a second. He could veer into the woods and bypass them, reaching Oakhaven faster. But if he left them here, the local farmers would be butchered.
Kent's jaw tightened. He drew his broadsword.
The goblins shrieked, firing a volley of crude arrows. Kent spurred his horse forward, not even flinching. He projected a roaring wall of golden mana, shattering the incoming arrows to splinters. He crashed into their ranks like a golden meteor, his greatsword swinging in wide, merciless arcs.
Down in the shining Capital, the quiet night was interrupted by the sharp crash of shattering glass.
Duke Luke Woods hurled his crystal wine glass across the study, watching it explode against the marble wall. He turned on his Vice Commander, his handsome face twisted in fury.
"Speak, Fitz," the Duke snapped. "You assured me the northern borders were completely overrun."
Fitz remained kneeling, his head bowed low. "My Lord... the main invasion force was blocked. Destroyed, entirely. Only a small, fragmented splinter of the horde slipped past the border. They're attacking Oakhaven now."
"Who in the hell has the sheer power to stop an army of fifty thousand in its tracks?" Woods demanded, his knuckles white as he gripped his mahogany desk. "Which army did the King send without my knowledge?"
"It wasn't an army, My Lord," Fitz whispered. He sounded genuinely afraid. "It was one man. The Purple Wizard."
Woods slammed his fist into the desk, a sickening crack echoing as the polished wood splintered. "Dammit! Why is that ancient ghost moving now? He's ruining everything!"