The battlefield had turned into a sea of shadows.
Everywhere Kaelion looked, black fire burned—devil mana feeding off the corpses of soldiers who had fought until their last breath. The air itself had become poison, thick with the residue of Aamon's awakening.
Kaelion's grip on his spear was tight enough to draw blood from his palm. He no longer knew how many enemies he'd killed. Ten? Fifty? A hundred? It didn't matter anymore. Each one he struck down was replaced by two more crawling out of the corrupted ground.
Seraphine's wings tore through the haze as she landed beside him, her armor cracked, her sword nearly dulled to the hilt. "We're losing the west flank!" she shouted. "The devils have breached the inner trench—Nock's barrier is holding, but barely!"
