Ulrich cleaved through the paltry wooden staff held by the voidborne and buried his axe deep into its torso. Someone without affinity wouldn’t hope to swing the weapon accurately more than a dozen times, but with his prowess the large hunk of metal felt little more than a broom in his hands. He wrested the blade free with a foot on his fallen foe before letting the axe rest on his shoulder while taking in his surroundings. Behind him the second line had moved forward, cutting down the remnants of voidlings that the front let through once the shield wall dissolved. The clerics had repositioned behind them and assisted the wounded that were able to separate themselves from the battle.

To his right the last of the behemoths fell, overwhelmed by half a dozen small rays of golden-white. As Marshal of Bastion he was acutely aware of the capabilities of the city’s forces—and their limitations. Over half of Bastion’s warriors had affinity, though less than a quarter could summon any physical manifestation of Light. Of those, even fewer could muster anything resembling a killing blow. Bastion was not guarded by the lone warrior, however, and the thin lances were more than enough against voidlings and even deadly to a behemoth if enough hit.

To his front, a glimmer of purple caught his eye and the fire within roared to life in his chest. A golden shimmer arose in front of him with the movement of his forearm and absorbed the incoming blast. His own Light lance darted through the air almost the same moment he dropped the barrier, but the defense was mirrored. He scowled at his opponent. Piecemeal armor over a chain shirt—different than the others in rags. The equipment meant little as the armor itself was a construct of the Void rather than natural material, but the movement was worthy of attention. It had been far smoother than the others. This voidborne would be a more dangerous foe.

Ulrich hefted his axe in both hands and charged forward, forcing the Light into his legs and closing the distance in several powerful strides. The voidborne raised its sword and swung downward, but the blade struck dirt as Ulrich deftly stepped to the side. A bastard sword, Ulrich noted. Long enough to be used by one or both hands. He might be outclassed in speed, but not power, given the difference in weapon weight.

The voidborne managed to position its blade in time to block his upward swing, but the force sent his foe stumbling backward. Ulrich continued with an unrelenting flurry of strikes to keep his enemy off-balance, but each was met by a last-second parry. The voidborne attempted to capitalize on the distance from being knocked away and extended its off hand. Ulrich lunged forward before the orb could form, grabbing the voidborne’s wrist and shouldering up into its armpit. He felt the crack and stepped away to leave the arm hang limp. A heavy swing to the injured side was intended to finish the fight but, to his surprise, the voidborne re-gripped its sword with both hands, unphased by its separated shoulder.

Their weapons met once more, but the block was far weaker than before. The sword rebounded upward and before it could be brought back down Ulrich dove forward and tackled the monster around the waist. He pinned the voidborne’s good arm above its head and forced the edge of his axe along the bottom of its helmet. Dark blood poured onto the ground as the voidborne struggled, but after a few short moments the enemy lay still.

Still kneeling on the corpse, Ulrich briefly released his hold on the Light and tested the amount of fatigue that crept into his body. His soul was strong, but his old muscles weren’t as they used to be. It would be unbecoming of someone of his experience to tear his body apart from within. Standing strained his aging joints, but he rose to survey the battlefield once more. The enemy was thinning considerably, Bastion’s warriors proving more effective than the Void even in spread combat.

On the edge of Ulrich’s vision a brilliant glow like the rising sun stole his attention. He turned in time to watch a sphere of Light half the size of a human manifest and explode into the sky. The massive lance illuminated the walls of the pass and punctured thick clouds like an arrow entering soft flesh. Moments later he was hit by a wall of wind and sound that left him shaking his head and cursing the ringing in his ears.

It took a moment for his eyes to focus, but they found Raegn at the center of the haze. The young heir struggled to push himself up off the ground, then collapsed back onto elbows and knees. Other warriors pressed on, driving through the Void and keeping the enemy away from their downed commander. Ulrich ran, Light-empowered strides dwarfing the speed of any normal human. He slid next to the boy, hefting him into a seated position by the shoulders and trying to ignore the melted portions of metal and chainmail on the arms. The helmet, too, had been charred on the right side.

Careless child. Years of training and the boy still refused to acknowledge the danger of the power he could wield. Raegn remained motionless as Ulrich slid the helmet free. Dark hair slick with sweat tumbled onto the boy’s forehead and as he opened his eyes they overflowed with enough Light it poured down his cheeks like luminous tears. Staring into them muddied Ulrich’s own vision and left him unable to see the rest of Raegn’s face. The glow faded, replaced by familiar blue irises and revealing a patch of scorched skin. It was no longer or wider than one’s little finger, starting at the temple and ending above the ear. The tension in Ulrich’s throat vanished. Hardly an injury. The Void had touched him, but the amount of Light within must have purged it immediately. The boy was just temporarily exhausted from how much he had used.

“How do I look?” Raegn asked hoarsely before licking his lips.

Ulrich attempted to mask his chuckle in a cough. He stood and offered a hand to help hoist the boy to his feet. “Like shit. But if you’re concerned the girls won’t take to you, I wouldn’t worry—I’d hardly call that a scar.”

Ulrich turned to check their surroundings. A few paces away a set of armored leg plates and greaves remained in a balanced stance, upright, yet absent the rest of the body. Were it anyone else he might have been impressed, but Raegn had long since proven his affinity with the Light. The boy was blessed with a body and soul that were near-perfectly attuned, allowing the Light to flow freely between the two. Many in Bastion had referred to the heir as a prodigy since he was no older than five, a laughing child forming barriers and casting needles of Light at training dummies. The word had never left Ulrich’s lips for he recognized Raegn’s confidence verged on hubris, but he had certainly thought it.

For all the Light could offer in strength and as a weapon, it did nothing to assist the mind. Ulrich sighed heavily. “We should have held our ground. We can only hope more of this filth doesn’t arrive before we can finish here and regroup in the neck of the pass.”

“We were withering under the attack. We took control of the battle!” Raegn retorted.

So often when the boy was offered a choice he would pick the one that resulted in the most fighting, not realizing others weren’t as capable or likely to survive. How he wished Raegn would see the benefits of other courses of action. That battle and glory were not all life had to offer. Chastising the heir in the middle of this chaos hardly seemed appropriate, but the Void had been pushed back enough that they weren’t in any immediate danger. Besides, he’d sworn to Lord Edelgard years ago that he would teach the boy. No opportunity to do so could be missed.

“You were provoked into meeting them in open ground,” Ulrich scolded. “They had already demonstrated the ability to adapt their tactics to ours. How many warriors—”

A wall of sound reverberated through the pass and drowned out the noise of battle.

“No,” Raegn whispered as he turned to face the city. “No! None have gotten through!” Raegn’s head snapped back to face Ulrich, waiting on an answer.

Ulrich was thankful for his own fatigue as it must have stopped the surprise he felt from reaching his face. The boy was right, no Void had made it through the formation, but the sequence came again: two short bellows followed by one long. The Defender’s Horn was a relic of legend, placed in the heart of the city when it had first been built centuries ago. It could sound for any number of reasons, but that sequence meant but one.

Enemy within the walls.

“The Horn calls,” Ulrich murmured. The fire swelled and he drew it to his voice, letting the heat singe his throat through his bellow. “Harlow!”

The Sentinel appeared from somewhere to Ulrich’s right, wielding sword and shield and painted with blood.

“Finish this fight, then regroup with all haste at the neck of the pass,” Ulrich ordered. “Bring the third line to the front. You join them and hold against the next wave when it comes. I leave all other decisions within the pass to you.”

Harlow nodded silently under another blast of the Horn and ran forward to rejoin the fray.

“Let’s go, boy.” Ulrich turned, but Raegn hesitated. His nostrils flared in a measured breath. They didn’t have time to dawdle. For once the boy was being ordered to fight and still he resisted. “You know Harlow is a good commander. Do not doubt him. Come, we have a greater responsibility.”

The words took hold and Raegn turned to grab a sword from nearby. The boy sheathed it, the standardized equipment of all Bastion’s forces sitting comfortably in his scabbard, then plucked a spear left behind in the corpse of a voidling. With one last glance at the battle, the heir turned his back to the valley and joined Ulrich in the run back to the city.