The air reeked of burnt metal and charred flesh as Captain Elias Veyra crouched behind the shattered remains of a supply wagon, his fingers tightening around the hilt of his spirit dagger. The battlefield was a graveyard of twisted steel and fallen soldiers, the once-green plains of the Veldaran Plateau now a wasteland of mud and blood. Across the field, the enemy's war drums thundered, a relentless heartbeat driving their advance.
*They're pushing too hard. Too fast.*
Elias glanced to his left, where Sergeant Kael hunched low, his breath ragged. The man's armor was dented, his face streaked with soot and sweat. "Orders, Captain?" Kael rasped, his voice barely audible over the din of clashing steel and distant artillery.
Elias didn't answer immediately. His gaze flickered to the ridge where the enemy's mages stood, their crimson banners flapping in the wind. The Unseen Hand—an elite cabal of void mages—had turned the tide in a matter of hours. Their spells had ripped through the Legion's defenses like paper, leaving behind only corpses and the hollow echoes of screams.
"We fall back," Elias said at last. "Regroup at the river crossing."
Kael's eyes widened. "That's half a league through open ground! They'll cut us down before we make it fifty paces!"
Elias gritted his teeth. "Then we don't run. We fight our way out." He turned to the handful of soldiers still standing—twelve men and women, all that remained of his company. Their faces were gaunt, their eyes hollow with exhaustion. But they were still breathing. Still alive.
That was enough.
"Listen close," Elias said, his voice low but sharp. "We move as one. Shields up, blades ready. The moment I give the signal, we break for the river. No hesitation. No looking back."
A murmur of assent rippled through the group. One of the younger soldiers—a recruit barely old enough to shave—swallowed hard. "What about the mages, sir?"
Elias exhaled through his nose. "Leave them to me."
He didn't have a plan. Not yet. But he had his dagger, and the faint hum of aether still clinging to its edge. It would have to be enough.
The enemy's advance was methodical, their front line a wall of blackened armor and serrated spears. Behind them, the Unseen Hand's mages chanted, their voices weaving a spell that made the air itself tremble. Elias felt it before he saw it—the pressure building, the ground beneath his boots vibrating with pent-up energy.
*Now.*
"Go!" he roared, surging forward.
The Legion moved as one, a desperate wedge of steel and defiance. Arrows whistled past, clattering against raised shields. A soldier to Elias's right went down with a gurgling cry, a spear jutting from his throat. Elias didn't stop. Couldn't stop.
The mages saw them coming. One—a gaunt figure in flowing crimson robes—raised a hand, fingers curling like claws. The spell hit before Elias could react.
Darkness swallowed him.
For a heartbeat, there was nothing. No sound. No light. Just the suffocating weight of the void pressing against his skin, leaching the warmth from his bones. Then—
Pain.
It erupted through his chest, white-hot and searing, as if something inside him had been torn loose. He staggered, gasping, his vision swimming with black spots. But he didn't fall.
*No. Not like this.*
With a snarl, Elias wrenched his dagger free and lunged. The blade found flesh, sinking deep into the mage's gut. The man's eyes widened, his chant dissolving into a wet, choking gasp. The spell shattered.
The world rushed back in a dizzying flood of sound and color. Around him, the Legion pressed forward, their momentum unbroken. The enemy line wavered.
Then—a horn blast, sharp and clear, cutting through the chaos.
Elias turned.
From the tree line, a new force emerged—riders clad in silver and blue, their lances gleaming in the fading light. The banner of the Twelfth fluttered above them, a golden phoenix against a field of azure.
Reinforcements.
A wild, disbelieving laugh tore from Elias's throat. They weren't going to die today.
But as the enemy ranks broke and scattered, Elias's gaze lingered on the fallen mage at his feet. The man's robes were stained crimson, his fingers still twitching with residual magic. And in his palm—a scrap of parchment, hastily scrawled with a single word:
*Eclipsed.*
Elias's blood ran cold.
He had no idea what it meant. But he knew one thing with absolute certainty—this wasn't over.
Not by a long shot.
The battle ended as swiftly as it had begun. The enemy retreated, vanishing into the smoke and shadows, leaving behind only the dead and the dying. The Twelfth's riders secured the field, their commander—a woman with a scarred face and piercing green eyes—dismounting to survey the carnage.
"Captain Veyra," she said, her voice crisp. "You're late."
Elias wiped his blade clean on his cloak. "Had a few distractions."
The woman—Commander Lira—snorted. "Understatement." She glanced at the parchment still clutched in his hand. "What's that?"
Elias hesitated. Then, slowly, he held it out. "A message. From the Unseen Hand."
Lira's expression darkened as she read the word. "Eclipsed." She exhaled sharply. "Damn it all."
Elias frowned. "You know what it means?"
Lira's jaw tightened. "Not here." She turned, barking orders to her soldiers before lowering her voice. "We need to move. Now."
Elias didn't argue. The urgency in her tone was enough.
As they marched toward the river, the weight of the unknown settled over him like a shroud. The battle had been won.
But the war?
The war was just beginning.