Since her Class Evolution during the siege of Swinford, she had found herself leaning heavily on this Skill, relying on it to bolster the dwindling band of refugees who struggled under the weight of exhaustion and fear.
With each use, the Skill infused them with a surge of borrowed strength, boosting their Stats and rekindling some semblance of resilience. Yet, she felt the toll it took. Each activation was a reminder of just how thin their numbers—and her own energy—had become.
Throughout her long career, she had never found much use for party buffs—the nature of a Knight of the Road’s work was, by definition, entirely solitary—and thus, having access to a significant support Skill as a Templar Ascendant was taking quite some getting used to.
It had taken a rather uncomfortable conversation with Captain Kettle to bring her to the realisation that her value to their ragtag forces extended beyond simply leading the charge.
“We’re not all immortal warriors made of granite, my lady,” he’d grumbled, his tone a mix of irritation and grudging respect. “Help a fellow out and switch on that damn legendary party buff of yours, will you?”
Considering the Skill’s short cooldown, there was nothing apart from her own inattention to keep her from having it running almost constantly, especially during the brief skirmishes in which the travelling column had thus far found itself.
In fact,
After all, her original Skills as a Knight of the Road had never hinted at any potential for such an upgrade; they’d been straightforward, blunt tools of justice, not inclined to grow beyond their initial limits. But here she was, apparently about to become the proud bearer of a legendary “morale boost.”
So, it had become almost second nature for Daine to trigger the Skill at the very first whisper of trouble.
An instinct that, as it turned out, saved the life of Corporal Jinks.
*
Given the drastic reduction in the forces at General Souit’s disposal, it was rather remarkable that Jinks—despite his supposed years of experience—remained doggedly fixed in his lowly rank.
Just before the refugee train reached the shadow of the Bloodspires, Captain Kettle received word that, due to recent vacancies, there were now “openings” for men of sufficient calibre, and it was suggested that promoting the wiry, ever-weaselly Jinks might make sense.
However, when Sergeant Drult openly declared that if he had to share a rank with “that short streak of piss,” he’d promptly join the ranks of the deserters himself, the matter was swiftly, and quietly, shelved.
Not that Jinks minded. For all his moaning and complaining, he had never felt a moment’s need actually to be the one giving the orders. Who needed that sort of responsibility in their life? Not he, for certain.
Right now, though, he was somewhat less concerned with his career aspirations and rather more focused on the garrotte that had found its way around his throat.
*
Under the cover of darkness, the attack began.
A figure moved swiftly through the shadows, her movements as fluid and predatory as a wolf’s. She spotted her target leaning lazily against a rock, his attention drifting, his stance slack with the weariness of an ill-fated night watch.
He was hardly an imposing figure—his armour fit poorly, sagging around his soft belly, and his eyes were heavy-lidded with fatigue. She suspected he’d been assigned sentry duty not due to any great skill in Perception but simply because he was less valuable elsewhere.
But then, in an instant, she was on him.
Before Jinks could register the threat, a garrote slipped around his neck, the fishing line biting into the soft skin under his throat. She had conducted many such attacks as these in her time and knew the man was seconds from death.
*
Jinks’ eyes bulged in shock, his hands flying to his throat as he frantically clawed at the wire cutting into his flesh. His breath came in ragged, choking gasps, each attempt to inhale meeting with searing pain. His knees gave way, buckling as the figure behind him—a woman, he thought in a flash of bewilderment—pulled the ligature tighter, hauling him backward and down to the ground.
They landed with a thud, her legs wrapping around his torso, locking him in a grip he might have welcomed under different circumstances. But now, as the wire bit deeper, the flicker of irony was quickly eclipsed by the growing darkness at the edge of his vision.
Jinks' vision blurred, dark spots dancing at the edges as his Strength ebbed away. His hands scrabbled at the rough ground, scraping and tearing as he struggled, his movements growing weaker. Desperation surged, but his body betrayed him, growing limp.
Just as darkness threatened to claim him, a feeling he had come to intimately associate with the tall figure of the Lady Darkhelm came over him, and a surge of energy flooded him.
It was as if a dam had burst inside him, unleashing a torrent of power that he found, if he were honest, quite addictive—especially given how unimpressive his usual abilities were. His typically mediocre attributes suddenly spiked, filling his limbs with a strength he knew he didn’t actually possess and sharpening his mind with a clarity that bordered on intoxicating.
The rush was thrilling, and for once, he felt truly formidable—a sensation he suspected he could get used to, perhaps even crave.
With a desperate, frantic heave, Jinks somehow wedged his fingers beneath the cutting wire, prying it just far enough to suck in a ragged, wheezing breath. Pain and panic fuelled his movements, each surge of adrenaline sharpening his desperation, and with a burst of raw, frantic energy, he ripped the line away from his throat. His skin burned, torn and bloody, but the rush of air was enough to reignite his will to survive.
Gasping for air, he staggered to his feet. "Help! We're under attack! Raise the alarm!" Jinks shouted, his voice hoarse but loud enough to pierce the night.
With painfully earned instinct, the camp erupted into action as soldiers—and the refugees they’d sworn to protect—sprang into action. Shouts rang out, steel flashed, and bodies moved in a flurry of hurried readiness.
Sergeant Drult was among the first to respond, charging toward Jinks and his shadowy assailant, his eyes locked on the struggling figures. The scene before him was a swirl of panic and purpose, the familiar disarray of lives under siege, yet every step was driven by a fierce determination honed over countless nights.
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The woman, momentarily thrown by Jinks' sudden resistance and the rising clamour of alarm—something she hadn’t accounted for—never saw Drult charging toward her. The big man swung his shield, bringing it down with a sickening crack that shattered her skull. She crumpled to the ground, lifeless, her once-stealthy form now just another broken body on the cold earth.
Drult dropped to one knee beside Jinks, who was gasping and clutching at his bruised, bloodied throat. “Not the time for lying down on the job, Jinks,” Drult said dryly, though there was a flicker of rough respect in his tone. “But you did good.” Rising to his full height, he bellowed, “Healer!” his voice cutting through the chaotic din like a battle horn.
The camp buzzed with frantic energy, a hive of movement and mounting tension. Soldiers armed themselves swiftly, securing their armour, drawing blades, and bracing for whatever threat loomed in the darkness. Nearby, civilians scrambled to support however they could—some clutching makeshift weapons, others steadying the more seasoned fighters, their faces set with a grim determination.
Drult stood vigilant over his corporal’s body, his gaze sweeping the shadows beyond the campfire’s flickering edge, muscles tensed and ready for the next wave of attackers. The ambush had been sudden, but if the assailants believed this camp an easy target, they were sorely mistaken.
What seemed like a huddled gathering of exhausted refugees held an undercurrent of resilience—fighters with hard-won experience, instincts honed by countless nights on edge, and a readiness that would make any intruder regret their misjudgment.
*
Despite the sting of recent humiliations on the battlefield, none of Souit’s setbacks could diminish the sheer force of his Great General Class. The emotional weight of his failures was heavy, but it did nothing to sap the strength or authority that his Class commanded; its power was a bedrock within him, unyielding and potent, regardless of the blows his pride had taken.
Even without the array of Skills at his command, decades of hard-earned experience had instilled in him the unwavering value of preparedness—especially when shepherding vulnerable civilians through hostile terrain. With a dwindling and increasingly threadbare band of professional soldiers at his disposal, Souit relied on every ounce of his strategic foresight, knowing that in such precarious circumstances, preparation and caution were their strongest defences.
Taciturn and unhelpful though he might seem during the interminable leadership meetings Mayor Elm insisted upon, Souit’s standing orders were meticulously crafted. Each detail painstakingly considered. His aloofness in council concealed a mind attuned to strategy.
As soon as he heard the alarm, Souit stepped out of his tent, his gaze scanning the camp.
Degralk was already in place at his left, the grizzled Major standing ready. Increasingly, Degralk had taken on the administrative duties of command, shouldering the countless logistical burdens without complaint, and Souit couldn’t help but feel a flicker of admiration for the seasoned Pikeman’s steady, reliable presence.
Ignoring Degralk for the moment, Souit barked orders. "Form ranks! Defensive positions, now!"
As a semblance of control was quickly established, he nodded for the Major to take command. "Captain Kettle, get your shield bearers to the front, Archers behind! Everyone else, assist the wounded and prepare to fall back to secondary positions if needed."
Souit had designated a secure zone at the heart of the camp for the most vulnerable—the children, the elderly, the wounded—and he felt a grim satisfaction as the cordon fell into place almost instantly at the first sign of trouble. “All non-combatants to the centre! Healers, stand ready,” he called, his voice carrying the weight of command.
The refugees, trained and prepared under Degralk’s direction with Souit’s guidance, moved with a coordination that would certainly surprise any attackers. They shifted with purpose, each step swift and orderly—a testament to their training and to their resolve. Souit positioned himself where he could survey the camp, his sharp gaze sweeping across the scene, ever alert to any vulnerability or fleeting advantage that might shift the tide in their favour.
However, the importance of maintaining the initiative ensured that the Great General was not merely focused on defence. His eyes sought out the mailed figure of the Lady Darkhelm. "My Lady!" he called to her. "We have control. Please feel free to see them off."
*
Lady Darkhelm stepped forward out of the defensive line, her eyes blazing with the unyielding light of her summoned Goddess.
A wave of arrows hissed through the air, crashing past her and felling several of the mountain people before she could even reach them to engage. One stray projectile glanced off the backplate of her armour, sparking against the metal. She assumed it was panicked misdirection rather than an assassination attempt, though she made a mental note to have a pointed word with whichever Archer had risked her back in their frenzy.
And then she reached the attackers who had, rather unfortunately for them, sought to bunch up as she approached. An intuitive belief in the safety of numbers, perhaps? They would quickly learn this was not the case.
Daine had little finesse with a blade, as Old Gant had so often reminded her, but her Class-enhanced Strength made her a fearsom presence on any battlefield. Without hesitation, she strode forward, taking the fight straight into the darkness.
The first attacker lunged at her, his face twisted in a snarl, wielding a crude club with both hands. Daine’s fist shot out, smashing into his jaw and sending him crumpling to the ground, his weapon falling uselessly at his side.
Another rushed her from the left, but her Speed was lightning-fast, her movement precise. She dodged right, catching his wrist mid-swing, twisting it sharply before flinging him into the shadows, his body crashing into the darkness. Her steps never faltered as she moved forward, each strike delivering the swift, uncompromising violence her enemies hadn’t expected.
Daine’s assault on the mountain men lacked all pretence of finesse. Every strike landed with unrestrained brutality, each movement a testament to sheer, bone-crushing force. Her greatsword swung in broad, punishing arcs, its massive weight an extension of her formidable Strength. The flat of the blade shattered skulls and caved in ribs, while its edge cleaved through flesh and bone, leaving a trail of carnage in her wake.
A tall, wiry figure dodged her ruthless sweeps, darting close and slashing at her with a jagged blade. Darkhelm caught his arm mid-strike, her fingers digging in as her muscles tensed. With a cold, surgical movement, she twisted his arm back, tearing it from its socket with a wet, satisfying rip. She followed through with a knee to his chest, the impact lifting him from the ground and sending his lifeless body hurtling backward. With a flick of disdain, she tossed the severed limb after him, the gesture as casual as discarding refuse, before turning to find her next target.
Daine advanced in silence, her focus a stark contrast to the panicked screams of the dying attackers around her. One by one, they crumpled under her assault, each strike delivered without hesitation or mercy. She cut through them like a living tempest, each swing of her greatsword scattering bodies and shattering bones, her expression unmoving.
As the few remaining attackers realised the hopelessness of their assault, they broke into a desperate retreat. Daine didn’t pause; with a sharp flick of her wrist, she hurled her greatsword through the air.
It spun in a deadly blur, striking two of them mid-flight, cleaving through torsos. They fell in halves, the severed pieces hitting the ground in sickening thuds. Daine strode forward, already reclaiming her sword, her pace unbroken as she continued her merciless path forward.
Just as the rout appeared complete, a larger figure—a leader, perhaps—charged at her, twin knives flashing in the darkness. She let the first blade sink into her side, absorbing the impact with barely a flinch. As he went to strike with the second, she caught his wrist mid-air, her grip iron. Without hesitation, she yanked him forward, tearing the knife from his grasp and lifting him clean off his feet.
With a single, unyielding heave, she drove him down into the rocky earth, the sheer force of the impact sending shockwaves through the ground as he struck. His spine shattered beneath him, and he lay limp, buried partway into the dirt as if swallowed by the earth itself. She straightened, pulling the knife from her side as she looked over the aftermath, unflinching and resolute.
Then, a lull settled around her.
The battlefield was strewn with the broken bodies of the attackers, only a handful of them dropped by arrows. Daine stood amidst the carnage, her breath heavy but steady, her eyes scanning for any remaining threats. The last of the mountain men, seeing their comrades killed with such brutal easy, turned and ran, their morale shattered.
General Souit and the rest of the soldiers, having held their defensive positions, watched in awe and relief.
The Lady Darkhelm's ferocity had turned the tide of the battle, her unmatched Strength breaking the attackers' will.
For her part, Daine wiped the blood from her face, her gaze still fierce, but there was a glint of satisfaction in her eyes.