CHAPTER 202: SHADOWS STIR BENEATH

Selwyn's rock fortress, one of the vital passes that guarded the capital's outskirts, crumbled in less than half a day under the destructive assault of Aleisterre's battlemage corps.

This crushing blow drove home a grim realization for the soldiers and citizens of Selwyn: their ancient adversary had grown far beyond Selwyn in strength over the years. What had once been a balanced contest was now tilted decisively in Aleisterre's favor.

"Form up! Everyone, to the walls! Ballista crews and crossbowmen—stand by!"

"Where are the alchemical golems from the warehouse? Drag them all out—Destroyers, Guardians, even the old gnomish siege machines. Feed them every mana crystal we've stored—we don't have the mages to use those stones, so the golems get them instead!"

"Deathsworn! Prepare to lie in ambush beneath the snowdrifts—clutch your sacrificial daggers tight. For the glory of Selwyn, offer up your lives to our Lord! You shall be guaranteed a place in the divine kingdom that will rise after our victory!"

Orders echoed from every quarter of Selwyn's capital. News of the rock fortress's swift collapse was a severe blow upon a people already teetering on the edge. However brave or steadfast the Selwynians might be, the sheer despair of a hopeless battle tore at every heart,soldier and civilian alike.

Even the generals' barked commands, ringing with fury and resolve, failed to stir those dulled by dread.

Then, a voice calm and brimming with unshakable conviction sounded directly within the minds of every Selwynian in the capital.

"Citizens of Selwyn, do not despair. This is not the end. We stand with the capital at our backs, supplied by lines Aleisterre cannot match. Every ounce of strength they expend, their power diminishes. But ours—ours endures."

It was the king's voice. None could say how it reached them, but all felt its weight. Heads lifted. Eyes refocused.

"And we possess what they do not—two legendary knights, unmatched by any in Aleisterre. They wait in silence, poised to strike. When the enemy dares grow careless, they shall deliver death like a sword from the heavens."

"Legends..." The people's eyes widened, buoyed with hope. A single legendary warrior was said to have the strength of an army. Their very presence could tilt the scales of war.

With a pair of legends on their side, Selwyn really might stand a chance.

"But more than strength or strategy—look behind you! There lies your home, the land that cradled your memories, your bloodlines, your lives! Will you let it fall into the hands of cursed Aleisterre?"

"No! For the glory of Selwyn, we will fight to the death! Even if we fall to the last man—we shall never let Aleisterre breach our capital!"

The king's speech surged to a fever pitch. His passionate voice spread like wildfire through the minds of his people, reigniting their spirit. Despair gave way to fury, to defiance, to a will sharpened by purpose.

Soldiers returned to their posts with grim resolve. Civilians, once huddled in hopeless silence, offered up what little they had—supplies, tools, and even their own strength. Men and women capable of bearing arms stepped forth, joining the defenses without hesitation.

In that moment, all of Selwyn stood as one.

The people of Selwyn no longer remembered who had begun the war. Nor did it seem to matter that, even if the capital were to fall, their surrender might still spare their lives—or even preserve the kingdom outright.

They had been called to fight, and fight they would.

"Still no word from the Selwynians?" Kevan asked, marching at the head of his infantry unit. His role as squad captain included relaying commands from higher-ups—especially from their commanding knight, Garcia of the Nightblades. "This result was inevitable. Why won't they surrender?"

"It's not the old days anymore," Kevan muttered. "Even if they lose, their kingdom won't be erased. The Church of Light won't allow it, and neither will the other human realms or the four races."

Garcia's reply crackled through the communication device. "There's been no response. It's impossible that none of our letters reached Selwyn, so there's only one conclusion: they have no intention of surrendering."

Kevan's brow furrowed. Through the lens of his spyglass, he could already glimpse Selwyn's capital rising in the distance.

"It doesn't make sense. They're stubborn, but not blind. This isn't a fight they can win. Surrender wouldn't even be dishonorable in this case..."

He hesitated. "Unless... the void?"

As a Nightblade, he knew the signs. That strange, death-defying resolve—could it be the influence of the void, warping minds on a massive scale?

But Garcia dismissed the thought. "We'd have sensed it. That kind of corruption can't lie hidden for long. What you're sensing isn't the void. It's divine magic."

Kevan's heart skipped. "Divine? That... that creeping power, the one that seeps into the soul and traps your mind in an endless loop of terror—that's divine?"

He had fallen prey to it once when a Deathsworn's blade pierced him. The black substance had clawed at his very soul.

"That power's not from the void," Garcia said firmly. "My mentor told me so. It belongs to a god."

"Father Fang?" Kevan asked, falling quiet. The archbishop of the Church of Light—and Garcia's teacher—was an authority no one questioned. If he said it was divine, then divine it was.

Garcia continued, his voice heavy, "Never underestimate a kingdom. Selwyn may be poor in resources and cut off from alchemy and advanced spellcraft. But that didn't stop them from delving deep into divine arts. Don't forget: in matters of faith, they may even surpass us."

Kevan said nothing, but a thin line of sweat formed at his brow. Gone was the sense of inevitable victory. Garcia was right—until they took Selwyn's capital, before the war was truly won, arrogance would be their greatest enemy.

Garcia's voice softened. "But don't panic. We still hold the advantage. Stick to the plan and we'll prevail. Remember: our goal is to neutralize the threat Selwyn poses, not to destroy it outright. Needless bloodshed will only cost Aleisterre more lives.

"Focus on taking down Selwyn's capital and destroying its army. Don't worry about the rest. Soldiers' lives are precious, and we shouldn't make unnecessary sacrifices. Kevan, I'm sure you'll know what to do."

Kevan nodded to himself. Garcia was right: victory, not annihilation.

He slipped the communication device back into his coat and barked orders to his squad. Five more kilometers, and Selwyn's capital would be in range of Aleisterre's battlemages. When the time came, the full might of the army would surge forward in a final assault.

Back in the rear, riding behind the advancing army, Garcia sat in a carriage now devoid of Fang's presence. He stared grimly at a report flashing across his device, a transmission from Aleisterre's capital.

"Victory celebrations already prepared... decorations completed... the new Elder Council's debut will coincide with the end of the war..."

Garcia clicked his tongue. They had likely anticipated Selwyn's fall long before the campaign began. For them, this war was a stepping stone, an opportunity to consolidate power.

He didn't fault them for it. War, after all, was inevitable. But receiving such a message before the bloodshed had even begun left a sour taste in his mouth.

"Whatever. I just hope the old man succeeds. If he doesn't... we're in for real trouble."

Garcia shook his head and turned his attention back to the field. The time for strategy was now. He would be taking part in the field command as well.

"Selwyn's capital has entered the battlemage corps' effective range. Begin harassment bombardment."

Several of the battlemages units halted their march. Twenty kilometers away, across windswept snow, loomed the spires of Selwyn's capital.

From their supply carts came crates of mana crystals, ammunition for the barrage.

With a shriek, blazing meteorites streaked across the sky, dragging fiery tails through sleet and snow. Molten death descended from the heavens, hissing steam trailing behind the meteorites as they slammed toward their targets.

Selwyn's climate dulled the intensity of the attacks. The flames were ineffective against the bitter chill, but the mass of rock that formed the meteorites' cores were potent in their own right.

"Aleisterre's attack is starting! Raise the obsidian shields! All others, fall back!"

The Selwynian defenders reacted quickly.

On the city walls, ranks of black, anti-magical obsidian barriers rose up into the air. The incoming meteorites, diminished in size and power, slammed into the shields with bursts of flame and shuddering force.

A massive meteorite, as large as a man's head and blazing with flames, plummeted from the sky. It crashed down on the capital's outer wall and the obsidian shield raised above it.

The impact shattered the meteorite and scattered debris around the obsidian shields.

The soldiers bracing behind the wall of shields were merely driven back a few paces, their arms and shoulders tingling numbly. The spell had been unleashed from too great a distance—its power, once formidable, was now but a shadow of its former strength.

"Stay alert! The Aleisterre army is advancing—open the gates! Let our troops charge out and cut down those frail soldiers of theirs! Deathsworn, move out!"

Selwyn's scouts pierced through ice and snow. From the frost-covered path in the distance, they glimpsed the vast tide of Aleisterre's host bearing down upon them and quickly relayed a warning. The commander, grave and resolute, issued swift orders in response.

The heavy gates of the capital groaned open. Armed to the teeth, Selwyn's warriors surged forth from within. The snowfields were their domain. No matter how powerful Aleisterre's battlemages might be, Selwyn had always had the advantage in infantry.

Aleisterre's heavy cavalry, bolstered by enchantments, thundered across the snowy plain. Their preparations meant that the wintry terrain posed no obstacle to their charge.

Suddenly, the snowdrifts burst apart. Selwyn warriors erupted from beneath the frozen earth, daggers held high, hurling themselves with reckless abandon at the charging cavalry.

The strange daggers they carried were well-known to Aleisterre: weapons of mind-corrupting poison, agents of chaos that had once brought grievous losses to their ranks.

Even so, the Aleisterre forces didn't hesitate. With wordless precision, the riders shifted formation. Those bearing specialized sigils rode to the fore, charging straight into the emerging Deathsworn without fear or hesitation.

They were Nightblades—devotees of the Lady of the Night, shielded by the sacred Prayer Network, the answer to this very threat.

Hooves met flesh and steel met resolve. The Deathsworn fell beneath the pounding advance. The brutal final clash had begun.