Hope's POV

  It was early morning when the first bell rang.

  I had just returned from the cemetery, breath still fogging in the cold air, when the northern gate bell started clanging—a sharp, frantic rhythm that echoed seconds later from the garrison, then the castle, then the church.

  Trouble.

  I was already dressed for it.

  Beneath my sister’s garb, I’d pre-adorned my armor—drake-scale cuirass dulled to matte black, boiled leather greaves and bracers, maroon flex-leather trousers, high-laced boots, and matching gloves. A small heater shield hung from my shoulder. I'd worn it all to the cemetery.

  Technically, I was a day late.

  My duty to the dead had a deadline. I’d let myself be carried away by Sam’s arrival, and now I was behind by just one day. One day was usually safe… usually. The chance of undead was low in this region, but never zero. Especially not in Chilow.

  And monsters like that? Their bites carried curses no novice could mend.

  I broke into a run, cloak flaring behind me as I raced toward the northern gate. Two of the town guards were already there, panicked and shouting, trying to drag old carts and barrels into place as an improvised barrier.

  It wouldn’t hold—not against anything serious.

  The town of Chilow had long outgrown its original walls. Most of the stone had been scavenged years ago under the last count’s “rebuilding efforts.” Some said he used the materials for a bathhouse. Others whispered he sold them to pay for mercenaries. Whatever the truth, it left us exposed—only a ditch, a few wooden watch posts, and desperate men to hold the line.

  And something was coming.

  Fast.

  Time.We needed more of it.

  I planted my boots in the churned earth and started chanting, voice low but steady. A long litany of mana-laced words spilled from my lips, resonating deep into the relic pressed against my chest. The necklace—an old holy piece, barely holding together after years of service—began to pulse, each thrum of power making the air around me shimmer.

  It took every shred of focus I had just to channel it.

  Slowly, painfully, the sanctuary circle began to form, traced in faint light over the ground. It was maddening—how slow it built. Like carving runes into stone with bare fingers.

  If my timing was right, the shield would hold.

  Maybe a minute.Maybe less, if they had a mage with them.

  Either way, it would have to be enough.

  Arrows were already pelting our position when the shield flared to life—a crystalline dome of blue light snapping into place just as the first volley came screaming in. The barrier stretched maybe fifty meters wide. Not enough to cover the flanks. Not enough for what was coming. But it was something.

  Better than nothing.If it held.

  The dozen guards from the nightwatch were already on-site, bloodied but holding their ground. Militia men, bleary-eyed and in half-buttoned tunics, were beginning to trickle in—too slowly.

  “By the God-King’s beard, hurry the fuck up!” I hissed under my breath, fingers trembling from the strain of holding the circle.

  And then I felt it—A cold prickle.Like a hand brushing through my spine.

  Someone on the other side had noticed the sanctuary.And they were trying to unravel it.

  The pressure built fast, a presence pushing at the seams of my magic like fingers prying open a wound.I bit my tongue and held firm.

  Outside the dome, more arrows rained down.Half the nightwatch was already dead.Men were falling faster than replacements were arriving.

  This wasn’t a raid.This was a culling.

  The first wave of the enemy hit us like a tide crashing against the shore, roaring like a thousand storms.

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  I could hear the templars behind me, charging at full tilt, armor clattering like thunder—but my shield faltered, flickering, and then shattered in a rain of light.

  No time to hesitate.

  I screamed, a raw, savage sound, and hurled myself into the enemy lines, my mace raised high. With a flick of my wrist, I triggered the enchantment—the weapon shimmered, its force extending an inch beyond the steel.

  The first goblin didn’t even have time to blink.I swung—and its skull crumpled as if hit by an invisible hammer.

  As the shield wall began to form on either side of me, the pressure eased—but only for a heartbeat.The bulk of the enemy force was still surging toward us.

  I caught sight of an enemy mage launching a firebolt. It missed our lines—only for the caster's head to explode, impaled by a spear thrown faster than a ballista bolt.

  At the center of the enemy formation stood a tall dark elf, his eyes pulsing with a sickly red light.

  "Dark Elf noble!" I screamed over the chaos of battle. "Beware of blood magic!"

  I knew calling him out would probably draw his attention—but at the moment, I was the only mid-stage two fighter on our side.The rest of the defenders were barely scraping into stage two or hovering at the top of stage one.

  This is bad... I muttered under my breath.

  The noble locked onto me immediately, carving a bloody path through the battlefield.Meanwhile, I was still hammering enemies left and right, turning skulls into paste as fast as I could swing.But it wasn’t sustainable—and now he was coming.

  Out of the corner of my eye, I spotted a tall orc battering his way through our right flank—another stage two.Fuck.

  I caught a glimpse of Sam throwing himself at the orc, only to be ruthlessly kicked through a building wall.My heart lurched—but I had no time to check on him.

  The blood-eyed elf was upon me.

  Clad in ornate full plate, he swung a long saber in his left hand and a thin dagger in his right, his attacks so fast it took everything I had just to block.Steel screamed against steel.

  Thank the God King,my mace’s enchantment specialized against armored opponents—displacing the force an inch past the impact point, ignoring their damned armor altogether.

  He had a slight upper hand on me—probably a level 80.

  All I needed was a single window, one opportunity.If I could land a clean hit,I might just live to see the sun again.

  Something to his left caught his attention.There it is.

  I struck hard, pushing through his guard and smashing his right elbow.I heard the satisfying crunch of breaking bone.His eyes snapped back to me, fury blazing in his blood-red gaze.

  In the next breath, his saber carved through my thigh—a white-hot burst of pain flooding my senses,blood pouring from the wound and flowing toward him.

  Like hell you're using me as a fucking health potion!I roared, throwing myself at him with reckless abandon.

  The sudden switch from defense to all-out offense caught him off-guard—my shield slammed into his face with brutal force,the sickening crunch of teeth and bone echoing through the chaos.Before he could recover, I brought my bloodied mace downin a savage, crushing arc right onto his helmet.

  He dropped like the sack of shit he was.

  Panting, I spun to my right—but the tall orc was nowhere to be seen.

  No time to chase.I locked back into position, raising my shield.

  Quickly, I pressed my hand to my bleeding thigh,channeling a basic healing spell to stem the blood loss before more could seep out.

  I quickly sealed the wound on my thigh, the healing spell leaving an ugly scar but stopping the blood from flowing toward the fallen dark elf.I barely had time to breathe before I heard it—the distant rumble of hooves.

  At first, it sounded like a storm.Then the shapes emerged, spectral through the smoke and dust, banners snapping in the rising sun.

  The Count’s cavalry—armored knights and light horsemen—cut through the morning haze like a blade, crashing into the enemy rear with a deafening roar.Enemy lines buckled, their cries of rage turning to fear.

  I staggered to my feet, my mace slick with blood, and leaned heavily on my shield.The tide was turning.The enemy was breaking.

  I watched with a hollow kind of satisfaction as the cavalry tore through the stragglers.It was over.At least for now.

  Through the smoke, a group of mounted knights approached.At their head rode Count Guimond, his polished armor scorched and bloodied, but his posture proud and unyielding.

  He dismounted in one fluid motion and strode toward me, the battlefield falling away into a distant blur of screams, smoke, and dying embers.

  "Good morning, Sister Hope," Count Guimond said, bowing with surprising humility."May I inquire if, once our position is consolidated, you would accompany us in routing the last of these vile raiders? We might even capture a prisoner or two."

  The Count was a short, robust man—barely five-foot-five—with a neatly trimmed salt-and-pepper beard and a barrel chest.If you didn’t know better, you might have mistaken him for a dwarf.He carried a finely crafted halberd and wore a modest hauberk, splinted greaves and bracers, and a minimalist breastplate.At first glance, his armor looked almost plain, but a closer look revealed it was made entirely of the highest grade magic-forged ores and enchanted leathers. Subtle. Deadly.

  Guimond was a self-made man, beloved by his people.A simple, lovable warrior who tried his best to stay clear of politics and used his strength to help wherever he could.I had found him myself as a child—an orphan of war—and brought him to the Church, much like I had done for Sam.He had grown fast and strong, and now, at just twenty-five, he stood on the verge of breaking into the Third Stage—a genius among geniuses in the Empire.

  "I would be honored to accompany you, my lord," I said, bowing lightly.

  He grinned like a fool, the boyish expression cutting through the grimness of the battlefield for a moment.