Chapter 40: Demons. More Demons

The battle hangs in precarious balance, the ebb and flow of the fighting a tumultuous sea of steel and fury. A handful of Sintar cavalry make their way up the side of the hill, Giroud’s sword becoming a blur of motion as he cuts down one after another. Beside him, Aya’s dark magic lashes out, her tentacles binding and restraining the chemically empowered Sintar warriors, slowing their advance.

But the Sintarians, fueled by the soul essence, are relentless. They surge forward at the front line, their movements a blur of speed and savage brutality, now overwhelming the Whitespire defenders with sheer numbers. The two warlocks at the rear continue to rain hellfire down upon the beleaguered forces, their spells harmlessly crashing into Aya’s protective barriers, seeking a weakening or gap to fall on the defending army.

Giroud purses his lips, his storm-gray eyes narrowing as he surveys the battlefield. Beside him, Aya’s face is etched with strain, her brow furrowed in concentration as she works to maintain her magical defenses.

“We’re losing ground,” Giroud growls, his voice barely audible over the din of the battle. He catches movement in his periphery and ducks under a wild swing from a Sintar cavalryman who has made his way up the hill, his sword lashing out to disembowel his attacker.

Aya’s lips move in a rapid incantation, and the earth beneath their feet trembles. Massive, writhing tentacles erupt from the ground, lashing out at the Sintar soldiers with savage fury. The handful of warriors in proximity scream in terror as the dark tentacles wrap around their limbs, crushing the life from their bodies.

The warlocks seize on Aya’s distraction to send bolts of pure fire toward her, and Giroud’s heart lurches in his chest.

“Aya!” he shouts, his voice laced with desperation, but the girl is already moving, her hands painting the air in front of her.

A shimmering barrier springs up, the hellfire crashing against it with a deafening roar. Aya staggers, blood trickling from her nose, but her concentration never wavers.

Giroud turns his attention back to the next round of flanking Sintar soldiers, his sword a deadly blur as he carves a path through their ranks. While the bulk of their infantry is slowly making progress up the hill, flankers are circumventing the defensive barricades and infantry resistance.

The battle rages on, the air thick with the stench of mud, sweat and death.

Suddenly, Aya’s voice cuts through the chaos. “Giroud! The relic!”

Giroud understands immediately, he’d been sidetracked and forgotten about their plan for the relic. Reaching into his pouch, he pulls out the bronze relic they’d recovered from the palace. In one fluid motion, he hurls it like a discus from their elevated position, sending it sailing over the Sintar lines.

The moment it lands, Aya’s hands shoot up, dark energy coursing through her small frame. She speaks words that make reality shudder, her voice carrying power that should never have belonged to one so young.

Behind the Sintar army, the air itself tears open.

The portal yawns massive—a wound in reality anchored to the relic, leaking darkness and malice. From its depths rush horrors: Aya’s summoned army of fel beasts, dark and angry, their forms twisting the very fabric of existence around them. They pour forth like nightmares given flesh, descending upon the unsuspecting rear of the Sintar forces.

The enemy warlocks turn too late, no time to perform a simple dispelling charm on Aya’s summoned pets. Before the first can react, the beasts are upon him. His screams cut short as shadow-claws tear through flesh and bone.

The second warlock finishes casting a spell before he meets the same gruesome fate. The warlock’s final spell seems to miss its target, disappearing into the ground.

The advantage is now well and truly theirs.

Chaos erupts in the Sintar ranks as they’re torn between the Whitespire forces before them and the fel beasts attacking from behind. Though the soul essence makes them strong and fearless, even chemical courage falters against demonic horrors. Their neat formations collapse as they frantically attempt to defend against enemies on both sides.

Then Giroud sees the dark runes ignite beneath Aya’s feet - a delayed death trap. The second warlock’s final spell has reached them. Even as he moves, he knows: there’s no blocking this, no defending. Just enough time to take her place as his shoulder knocks her aside.

His last sight is her face, twisted in horror as she realizes what he’s done. His last thought isn’t heroism or nobility or redemption. It’s selfish and human and real: he wishes they had more time. Time for him to love Aya.

The magic tears through him, and he crumples.

“No!” The scream rips from Aya’s throat, raw and primal. The potion still courses through her veins, but now it amplifies something darker. Grief transforms to rage. Power erupts from her in waves of shadow, her pain manifesting as pure destructive force.

Her feet leave the ground, dark energy radiating out from her with the intensity to suspend her inches in the air. A wicked purple aura blazes around her, so bright it hurts to look at, yet somehow drinking in the light around her. The very air crackles with energy never before witnessed in this realm. Her hair whips in an otherworldly wind, her eyes now burning orbs of violet flame.