The roar became deafening. The plain of Karthak, a vast expanse of dry grass, trembled under the cadenced step of thousands of Pilaf's soldiers. The sun, relentless, made the tips of the lances and steel helmets sparkle, transforming the marching army into a serpent of luminous scales. Facing them, Maggie's battalion seemed derisory, a thin line of iron and willpower standing against a tidal wave.

Maggie felt the familiar weight of her halberd in her hands, but the sensation was different. It wasn't the same as when she faced spectral horrors or corrupted beasts. Today, the point of her weapon was aimed at men. Beings of flesh and blood, with families, fears, a breath like her own. A dull nausea coiled in her stomach, quickly suppressed by the piercing cry of an enemy trumpet.

"Hold the line!" she screamed, her hoarse voice carried by a sudden wind.

The shock was apocalyptic. The first rank of Pilaf hit their shields with the brutal force of a battering ram. The cracking of wood and the clashing of metal mixed with the cries of men. Maggie became the pivot of the storm. Her halberd, a deadly extension of her will, described great arcs around her. A thrust to pierce armor, a slash to cut down a leg, a hook to unhorse an assailant. Every movement was economical, precise, the fruit of years of drill. But every movement cost her.

A dull, deep pain burned in her chest, where her spiritual core, cracked and abnormally vast, devoured her own vital energy to fuel her muscles. It was an inner thirst that could not be quenched. She felt the essence around her, the vibrant flux of combat, the fear, the fury, but she could not draw from it. Her own body was a prison draining her. Her stigma, that mark which once channeled power, was as inert as an old scar. She fought muted, deprived of her heritage, reduced to the simple strength of her arms and the tenacity of her spirit.

"Shields! Tighten the ranks!" bellowed Tonar, his sword red with the enemy's blood.

They held. Miraculously, they held. Maggie's soldiers, inspired by her desperate calm, formed a rock. But the rock was eroding under the incessant flow. An Awakened fire-mage from Pilaf, spotted by Zirel, projected a crackling ball of flames. It crashed onto their left flank, sowing panic and the agonizing cries of men turned into living torches.

Maggie clenched her teeth, powerless. Without her essence, she could only watch.

Suddenly, a volley of black arrows whistled over their heads, coming from their own lines. They weren't aimed at the soldiers, but at the ground before the next assault wave. Upon touching the earth, they exploded not into fire, but into a thick, blackish vapor that spread like an ink fog. Cries of enemy confusion replaced war cries.

And Rhelas was using his Awakened not for grand illusions, but for tactical obstructions, blinding the enemy, breaking its momentum.

It was the signal.

From the far end of the plain, a new sound emerged, deeper, more menacing than all the others. A rumble of thunder from the hills. And then, they appeared. Valerius's "Hammer". A compact mass of heavy cavalry, caparisoned in iron, charging down the slope at a gallop. The earth literally shook under their hooves. They struck the right flank of the Pilaf army with the force of an avalanche, shattering its advance completely. General Valerius, at the head, was now just a vortex of destruction, his immense polearm mowing down everything in its path.

The wave crushing Maggie finally broke. The pressure decreased. The Pilaf soldiers, caught between the anvil of the tenacious battalion and the hammer of the cavalry charge, began to falter, their cohesion flying apart.

Breathless, muscles trembling with exhaustion, Maggie leaned on her halberd, the blade reddened up to the haft. The battle still raged around her, but its course had changed. They had held. She had held. She looked up at the sky, blinded by the sun and fatigue. She had survived another battle, but looking at the bodies at her feet, friends and enemies mingled, she no longer knew if it was a victory or just a reprieve, bought at the heaviest price. Her body was now just an empty vessel, and her soul, a battlefield just as ravaged.

But war does not forgive complacency.

What followed was at first imperceptible. A murmur, a shiver across the field, then an almost supernatural change in the daylight. The air seemed to grow heavier, vibrating with an unhealthy heat. The ground under the cavalry's feet began to smoke. Valerius, charging at full speed, looked up just in time to see a streak of reddish light trace an arc in the sky.

The blast of the detonation bent the grass for hundreds of meters around.

The cavalrymen, caught full force, were thrown into the air like wisps of straw. The mountain of metal and flesh crashed down in a tumult of screams and broken hooves. The right flank had just exploded — literally — under the strike of a Pilaf Awakened, a high-ranking fire mage, probably one of those kept in reserve for decisive assaults.

Maggie looked up. In the sky, suspended like a solar stain, a silhouette was outlined against the red light. A man — or what remained of one — surrounded by a halo of molten essence. His cry was not human: a guttural incantation that twisted reality around him.

A second bolt struck, this time at the center. The shock overturned the ranks, and the heat that followed melted the weapons in the hands of those too close.

The soldiers screamed, stumbled, blinded by ash and fear. What, a minute earlier, resembled a victory, became an incandescent hell.

"Fall back!" shouted Tonar, his voice raspy from the smoke.

But it was already too late.

The Pilaf troops, galvanized by the terror inspired by their own Awakened, reformed their line. And among them, a new symbol advanced: a crimson standard emblazoned with a spiral-shaped sigil, the sign of a general, a commander sent by Pilaf himself.

"They've sent Arven…" breathed Zirel, incredulous.

Maggie felt the collective terror seep like poison into the ranks.

The second wave of Pilaf arrived, methodical, unstoppable. Their shields formed a living wall, advancing under a rain of projectiles. Behind them, the crossbowmen fired incessantly. The cold discipline of a war machine.

And in this organized din, the human cries of her own men suddenly seemed derisory.

Maggie tried to get up, halberd trembling, throat tight.

Around her, the soldiers retreated, stumbling over bodies, the line disintegrating like sand between fingers.

Then, something gave way inside her — not the flesh, but the breath.

Her already cracked spiritual core suddenly vibrated, calling the surrounding essence despite herself. She felt the pain flash like lightning in her chest, every nerve igniting. She stifled a cry. The dead stigma seemed… to pulse.

A foreign, burning heat rose within her — a power she had not summoned for weeks.

But it was uncontrollable.

Her breath distorted, her vision wavered. The entire battlefield seemed to distort: the blood became streaks of light, the shadows moving serpents. She no longer knew if she was drawing on her own essence or if something else was inviting itself in.

The halberd lit up with a sickly golden hue. The ground vibrated under her feet.

She struck.

And the world exploded.

A shockwave burst forth, sweeping away both her enemies and her closest allies. Soldiers were thrown several meters away, shields shattered, dust rose in an opaque wall.

When the light subsided, Maggie was on her knees, breathless. Before her, a smoking crater.

Around — silence. A post-storm silence.

But it was not a victory.

The Pilaf troops, although hit, were already reforming their lines. And this time, they advanced slowly, cautiously, encircling the debris of her battalion.

Maggie, dazed, raised her head. Through the dust, she made out a man in black armor, a crimson cape trailing in the mud — Arven himself.

The general stared at the still-smoking halberd with a calculating gaze.

Then, with a gesture, he ordered her capture.

The last thing Maggie saw before collapsing was the shadow of her own troops disintegrating under the assault.

And this certainty: war did not want heroes, only survivors.

Maggie's world was now only pain and confusion. Through a veil of dust and involuntary tears, she saw the silhouettes of Pilaf's soldiers approaching, their weapons pointed at her. Her body refused to respond, drained by the uncontrolled explosion of her essence. Her halberd, still warm, lay beside her, its sickly golden light gradually fading.

"Take her alive!" ordered a cold voice that cut through the chaos.

It was General Arven. He approached, impassive, his immaculate black armor contrasting with the surrounding carnage. His eyes calculated every detail, every opportunity.

Suddenly, a form interposed itself between Maggie and the enemy soldiers. Rhelas. His face was pale, his clothes torn, but his hands were already tracing the complex patterns of a final illusion.

"Don't look at them!" he cried to the nearest Pilaf soldiers.

A blinding flash of light shot from his fingers, forcing the assailants to recoil, shielding their eyes. It was a desperate diversion.

"Tonar! Get her out of here!" screamed Rhelas.

But as he maintained the illusion, a black arrow sliced through the air. It wasn't aimed at Rhelas, but at the ground at his feet. The moment it touched the earth, a silent explosion of violet energy enveloped the Awakened Commander. His body stiffened, his eyes widened in a horrified expression of surprise, then he collapsed like a puppet whose strings had been cut. The illusion vanished as quickly as it had appeared.

"Rhelas!" roared Tonar, who had rushed towards Maggie.

The sergeant reached Maggie just as the Pilaf soldiers, recovered from their surprise, rushed towards them again. Tonar planted himself in front of her, his sword raised, making his body a living shield.

"No one will touch you, Captain," he growled.

For a moment, he seemed invincible. His sword traced deadly circles, holding several soldiers at bay at once. But numbers eventually prevailed. A spear found an opening in his defense, piercing his shoulder. Tonar grunted but did not retreat. A second weapon entered his side, seeking vital organs.

A hoarse gasp escaped his lips. His left knee touched the ground, then his right. His gaze met Maggie's, full of fierce determination, before his eyes went blank. He collapsed heavily, his massive body forming one last barrier between Maggie and the enemy.

Maggie, paralyzed by exhaustion and grief, could only stretch a trembling hand towards her faithful sergeant. Silent tears streamed down her cheeks, tracing clean furrows in the dust and soot covering her face.

General Arven approached, walking with a theatrical slowness across the battlefield. He stopped near Tonar's body, stepped around it indifferently, and stared at Maggie.

"The famous Captain Maggie," he said in a neutral voice. "They say you held the Umbral Gorges against our best troops."

He gestured, and two soldiers grabbed Maggie by the arms, forcing her to stand. Her legs wobbled, refusing to carry her.

"I wonder what Count Martissant would be willing to pay for your return," Arven continued, a cold smile on his lips. "Or perhaps he would prefer we keep you. You might have much to teach us about your... particular methods."

Maggie raised her head, gathering what pride she had left. "You will get nothing from me."

Arven's smile widened. "We'll see."

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