The first of Krago’s forces crash through the tree line seconds later, no longer holding formation, urgency driving them forward in uneven bursts. An orc stumbles on the edge of the clearing, regains his footing, and charges again, while a naga slips past him in a smooth, cutting line, faster, more deliberate.
“Don’t slow,” I say.
“I won’t.”
We hit the line hard, soldiers parting just enough to let us through before closing ranks behind us again, shields locking, spears lowering in a unified motion that wasn’t there before.
“Reform!” Kareth’s voice cuts across the field, sharp enough to pull everything into alignment. “Left flank tighten—don’t give them space!”
I move past him without stopping, but his gaze catches mine for half a second, reading the shift in me the same way he reads the field.
“You’re back,” he says, already turning to shout another command.
“Yes.”
“And?”
I glance once over my shoulder as the first impact hits the reinforced line.
“We’re not done,” I say.
That’s enough for him. It always is.
The battlefield has changed while I was gone, not in structure but in strain. The line holds, but it bows under renewed pressure as the pursuing forces slam into it, their movements less coordinated than before, their timing fractured just enough to create openings that weren’t there earlier. The chaos from within their own camp has followed them here, clinging to their formation like something they can’t quite shake.
“They’re off rhythm,” Lyria says beside me, her eyes tracking the shifts faster than most of the soldiers around us.
“They’re reacting instead of leading,” I reply, stepping forward into the line again as a strike comes within range. I catch it and redirect, driving the attacker back into the press behind him hard enough to disrupt the next movement in line.
“Then we keep them reacting,” she says.
“Exactly.”
I raise my voice just enough to carry. “Don’t let them settle—push them before they reset!”
A soldier to my right hesitates, his stance too wide, his weight shifting backward instead of forward as the pressure builds.
“Closer,” I snap, stepping into him and shoving his shoulder inward until his shield aligns with the next man’s. “You leave space, they take it.”
He adjusts immediately, breath sharp, grip tightening as he resets.
Better.
Lyria moves along the inner edge, not striking, but shaping the flow, catching people before they break, redirecting them into positions they didn’t realize they needed.
“Rotate out,” she calls, grabbing one man by the forearm and pulling him back just as his stance starts to collapse. “You’re done—switch before you drop!”
Another steps in without hesitation.
They listen.
Not because they’re calm.
Because they trust her.
That matters more.
The second horn cuts through the noise, lower this time, heavier, carrying from beyond the immediate clash. I turn toward it instinctively, scanning past the line to the far edge of the field where movement begins to form—tight, not the scattered push of Krago’s forces but something structured, deliberate.
