But when Red Vossler raised his blade, the battlefield itself seemed to bow before him. The warhorses reared, their mouths foaming, eyes blazing with killing intent.
Those aren’t just horses; they are engines of war, bred and molded by the North to obey the strong and to listen to the command to destroy. And then they charged.
The sound is deafening, a single, unified thunder that shook the ground and split the sky. The air itself seemed to rip apart as the hundred Borgia knights descended the slope like an avalanche of steel and death.
Their warhorses, massive as siege beasts, tore through the earth with hooves that struck sparks from the soil. Their breath came out in great gouts of smoke and flame, their manes whipped by the wind as if caught in some otherworldly storm.
On the ridge opposite them, Thaddeus de Harte’s lines faltered. "Hold!" he shouted, his throat raw. "Archers—fire! FIRE!"
Hundreds of flaming arrows streaked into the sky, raining down in a deadly arc. But when the arrows met the magic barrier made by the Borgia, they broke. The barrier was made by the demon’s mixed-blood knights; their magic is above the demon race’s power. The barrier is solid and strong, and not a single rider fell.
"Monsters," one of the imperial soldiers whispered. "They’re not knights; they’re monsters."
Thaddeus doesn’t disagree.
Red Vossler was at the front, his black armor gleaming with runic light, his warhorse snorting a mist that burned the grass where it fell. His blade is unlike any other, a great curved sword forged from the ore of the Abyssal Peaks, humming with ancient resonance.
When he swung it once, the world split.
A crescent of energy ripped across the field, a blinding flash that tore through the first imperial cavalry line like paper. Horses screamed, men shouted, and the formation broke in a single instant. The front ranks were gone, shredded into crimson mist.
The Borgia knights thundered through the gap.
Every strike is decisive, every motion perfect. They moved like a single organism, cutting deep into the enemy’s heart. The warhorses trampled bodies and banners alike, and for every imperial knight who tried to rise, two more were cut down.
Thaddeus’s second in command, Captain Elric, tried to rally the flanks. "Lancers! Close the breach!"
But the Wyndham cavalry is already there.
From the eastern ridge came Rose de Wyndham and her riders, their banners fluttering behind them. Unlike the Borgia, their armor is light, almost ceremonial, but they moved too fast to be caught.
Weapons clashed like lightning, steel striking steel in showers of sparks. Rose fought with lethal moves, her swords slipping through gaps in the broken imperial army’s defense. Her horse moved with her, swift and sure, dodging fallen soldiers, shattered shields, and the scattered flames licking at the battlefield. The firelight flashed in her eyes, cold, unreadable, untouched by the chaos around her.
Her lips shaped a silent prayer as her blades carved through armor and flesh. Every strike tore through enemy lines, scattering their ranks, leaving them reeling. Her horse spun and charged, hooves pounding the blood-soaked earth, carrying her like an unstoppable storm.
She’s a blur of motion, dodging axes, sidestepping spears, and striking back with ruthless efficiency. The imperial soldiers staggered under her assault, fear creeping into their expressions as they realized she isn’t just a warrior. She’s reshaping the battle itself.
Each motion is quick, merciless, and deadly; Rose moved like a wraith through chaos, her armor catching brief flashes of sunlight before vanishing again in the smoke.
She rode past an imperial officer, flicked her wrist, and the man’s helm split open cleanly, blood blooming in the air like a crimson flower. Her knights followed without hesitation, their spears lowering in perfect rhythm, swirling around her in a deadly cyclone that shredded any who dared to hold ground.
"Push the right flank!" Rose commanded, her voice cutting through the din of war like the crack of a whip. "Don’t let them reform!"
Her riders answered with a unified roar.
The Wyndham cavalry flowed outward, not as a column but as a tide, fast, coordinated, and merciless. They slipped through gaps torn open by Borgia’s first charge, slashing at exposed ranks and trampling wounded men before they could rise. Horses and riders moved as one, their weapons shining like silver lightning as they cut deep into the imperial formation.
What began as an organized line of imperial steel quickly unraveled into panic. The Wyndham knights hit from three angles at once, breaking the enemy’s rhythm and turning command into chaos. Officers shouted, horns blared in confusion, but no order could stand against the sheer velocity of Wyndham’s strike.
"Fall back!" Someone screamed from the imperial side, though the voice was soon drowned out by the thunder of hooves and the clash of steel.
Within minutes, the imperial right flank is gone, collapsed beneath Wyndham’s charge, swallowed by dust, fire, and death. The symmetry of an army had turned into the shrieking disarray of survival, and Rose de Wyndham, at the heart of it all, led her knights deeper.
When the smoke thinned, the once-unbreakable formation lay shattered at her feet. Every move, every heartbeat, had been a silent witness to her skill and her ruthless way of fighting that made her unmatched on the field.
And through it all, Eisenwald held the center.
Gerhard de Eisenwald’s knights, solid, immovable, and shield-locked, anchored the entire advance. "Hold the line!" Gerhard bellowed. "Shield to shield! Don’t let them through!"
They held the line, and even when some of the imperial knights who went past Borgia and Wyndham rammed into them, the Eisenwald formation refused to break. Their spears thrust in unison, impaling horses and riders. When one man fell, another stepped forward. Blood flowed down the ridges like a river, soaking into the red clay.
And then came another roar, from Red Vossler.
He raised his sword high again, and the energy surged once more, spreading out like ripples through the battlefield. Wherever the Borgia knights passed, the air shimmered, distorting from the power radiating off them.
Another slash, another column of light tore through the imperial lines. Entire cavalry units vanished.
Thaddeus stared from his vantage point, horror freezing his heart. His proud imperial knights, ten thousand strong, are being butchered like livestock by a hundred of Borgia’s elite, two thousand Wyndham riders, and Eisenwald’s iron phalanx.
"Retreat!" he finally screamed. "Fall back! Regroup at the southern ridge!"
But his command came too late; the retreat became a rout.
Imperial banners fell, one after another. The horns of withdrawal are drowned out by the sound of dying horses, shattering shields, and screaming men. The field turned into a sea of smoke and blood.
Even the sky darkened, thick with the dust and fire of battle.
Among the chaos, Rose de Wyndham’s riders circled back, cutting down fleeing soldiers. "End it quickly," she called, her voice flat, almost pitying. "We’re not butchers."
But for the Borgia knights, mercy is never in their nature. Their warhorses’ eyes burned crimson, their hooves churning the battlefield into mud and gore.
Red Vossler guided his mount forward through the carnage, blade dripping red. He turned toward Gerhard de Eisenwald, who stood tall at the center, his armor dented and slick with blood, not his own.
"It’s done," Vossler said, voice calm as the storm subsided.
Eisenwald nodded grimly. "We’ve held. Wyndham swept the field. Borgia crushed the heart." He turned, scanning the remnants of the battlefield, thousands of imperial dead scattered across the plain, smoke curling into the dawn light.
But the victory had not come without cost.
Dozens of Eisenwald’s men lay among the fallen, shields broken, armor caved in. The Wyndham riders, though victorious, carried their wounded, half of them bleeding from deep cuts and shattered bones.
Yet the Borgia knights stood untouched. Not a single one had fallen. Their armor gleamed beneath the bloodied dawn, unmarred, untarnished, monuments of living war.
To the survivors, it was as if gods had descended upon the field, not the benevolent kind sung of in temple hymns, but the vengeful deities of war and ruin. The ground trembled beneath the hooves of the Borgia steeds; the air was thick with smoke, ash, and the metallic tang of blood. The imperial banners, once proud and bright, now burned like dying embers scattered across the plain.
The imperial elite knights, famed for their power and steel-clad might, are shattered before the day even began to dim. Their golden armor lay cracked and blackened, their formations broken like glass underfoot.
What had started as a confident advance turned into a blind retreat, men running, stumbling, and screaming beneath the thunder of hooves and the merciless arc of Borgia steel. And the merciless attack from the Wyndham forces.
Red Vossler and his hundred knights stood at the heart of the carnage, their armor unscarred, their blades still singing. Every swing of Vossler’s sword tore through multiple foes, a single crimson arc cutting through ranks as if cleaving through mist. When his warhorse reared, the beast looked less like a steed and more like a creature born of the abyss, its eyes burning, its breath steaming with blood and smoke.
Around him, the Eisenwald knights held firm, forming walls of shields and pikes that braced the flanks. Their formation stood unbroken despite the slaughter that raged nearby. Every order Gerhard de Eisenwald gave is met with obedience; the man had turned chaos into rhythm.
At the same time, Wyndham’s cavalry wheeled and swept the field like wind-driven fire. Rose’s riders moved in tight spirals, picking off stragglers and cutting through reformed lines before they could gather strength.
By the time the sun dipped low, the battlefield was silent except for the crackle of flames and the groans of the dying. The imperial banners had fallen. What remained of their once-proud cavalry was reduced to twisted steel and scattered bones.
Gerhard de Eisenwald sat astride his horse, staring across the field. The sky had begun to turn red, the same color as the Borgia cloaks fluttering amid the smoke. He could still hear the distant echo of Red Vossler’s blade, the low growl of Borgia’s monstrous steeds, and the rhythm of Wyndham’s retreat back into formation.
He exhaled slowly and clenched his hand around the reins.
At that moment, he knew. He had chosen the right side.
Not because of glory or promise of reward, but because what stood before him was power made flesh, order amidst chaos, the kind of dominance the empire once claimed but no longer possessed.
And in that silence that followed the slaughter, Red Vossler raised his blade again, not in triumph, but in warning.
"Tell your emperor," he said to Thaddeus, "if he sends more war, we’ll destroy the capital next."