"Stop him!" Aegis roared toward the breach in the camp wall, his eyes nearly splitting as he realized the Godskin Noble's true objective.
The nearby Storm Knights charged without a second thought. They unleashed a barrage of invisible air blades that shrieked through the night, reducing grass, trees, and stone to fine powder in their wake.
Among the three orthodox styles of The Lands Between, the Storm Swordsmanship of Stormveil lacked the grace of Carian Arts or the discipline of Leyndell, but in sheer explosive violence, it was unrivaled. A seasoned Storm Knight could end a duel against an equal in a matter of heartbeats.
But their opponent was no equal. He was Samuel, a Godskin Noble who had walked the path of deicide. Among the Apostles, only the most ancient and terrifying were granted the title of Noble.
"Your courage is comndable," Samuel's voice drifted disdainfully from beneath his hood. "But your strength is utterly pathetic!"
He snapped his wrist, his Godskin Stitcher carving a perfect arc in the air. As the circle closed, a vortex of black and white flas erupted, swallowing the air blades and the knights in a single, hungry gulp.
When the fire collapsed an instant later, the knights remained in their charging postures—charred pillars of carbon that crumbled into ash as Samuel brushed past them. There was no longer anything standing between the assassin and the royal tent.
A world-shaking roar erupted from the west. Elder Atok, cornered by three Apostles, cast aside caution and underwent a full dragon transformation. His scales hardened and his strength surged, but his massive fra beca a target. The Apostles moved with ruthless precision, their black-fla-wrapped peelers carving deep wounds into his shoulders and wings.
Atok growled in agony, his eyes flashing with draconic ferocity. He swung his massive tail, the force of the blow whipping the three Apostles into a red mist. Breaking free, the Elder took flight, wings beating frantically as he swept toward the royal tent to intercept Samuel.
He only needed to hold the line for a minute. If he could stall, the knights and warriors would mop up the remaining intruders, and Aegis and Muriel would close the trap.
Samuel, however, moved with an illogical, fluid grace. He leapt at a bizarre angle, curling his bloated body into a rapidly spinning ball. As Atok braced for the impact, Samuel's form expanded with a deafening sonic boom.
An invisible shockwave—the Noble Presence—exploded outward. The force blasted the dragon-form Atok back dozens of paces. Everything within a hundred-ter radius was leveled, and even the lightning-wreathed barrier around the tent teetered on the verge of collapse.
"Noble Presence?!" Inside the tent, Lucia's ears bled from the pressure. He was thrown backward, the dragon-scale blade slipping from his numb fingers.
Before he could recover, a blade wreathed in black flas tore through the tent wall, carving a cross-shaped rent. The fabric fell away, revealing Samuel. The Godskin Stitcher blurred into a ghostly light, aid squarely at Lucia's throat.
Survival instinct, honed over thousands of hours of gaplay and three months of dragon physiology, took over. Lucia rolled violently. He caught his blade and parried a second strike he barely saw. The impact sent a jolt of white-hot pain up his arm, launching him off his feet. He smashed through a table and hit the floor hard.
Samuel didn't let up. He lunged through the air, his arm stretching like rubber as the needle-sharp rapier slid through space, closing in on Lucia's heart.
In desperation, the youth grabbed a fallen incense burner from the debris and hurled it with everything he had. Samuel didn't even flinch; he casually swatted the "toy" aside with his sword.
Bang!
The burner shattered half a ter from the Noble's face, releasing a thick cloud of pale purple mist.
The mont the herbal fragrance touched his nostrils, Samuel's mind went blank. A wave of unnatural lethargy crashed over him, drowning his fanatical resolve. Before the eyes of everyone present, the terrifying assassin plumted to the ground like a fly hit by a swatter. His limbs twitched once, twice, and then he began to snore—deep, deafening rumbles that echoed through the camp.
The battlefield fell into a surreal silence. The despair on Aegis's face froze into pure bewildernt. The remaining Godskin Apostles looked at one another, their eerie cowls now resembling the masks of confused clowns.
In the center of the ruins, a pale Lucia scrambled to his feet. He snatched Samuel's Godskin Stitcher and, while gasping for air, spat a curse. "You bastard... do you have any idea how much Ancient Dragon blood I put in that incense?"
It was a universal truth: those with fur feared fire, the massive feared narrow gaps, and the Godskins—no matter how powerful—were weak to sleep. Lucia wasn't sure if "big ones are weak to doors" translated to this world, but fortunately, the Godskin vulnerability to sleep was very real.
Atok landed beside Lucia, spreading his wings in a protective arc. Knights sward the area, constructing a wall of shields and spears. They produced enchanted chains as thick as a man's arm, binding the snoring Samuel until he looked like a tal-wrapped cocoon.
"Your Highness, are you hard?" Atok's voice was a muffled rumble.
"I'm fine. Don't worry about ," Lucia panted. "But put a few more Dragon Breath Seals on this guy. I don't want him waking up."
Atok nodded and exhaled a precise stream of golden-red fla onto the chains. The tal glowed with a divine seal; if Samuel tried to break them, he would be incinerated from the inside out.
Seeing their leader captured, the remaining Apostles retreated into clouds of black fla, leaving behind their fallen kin. On the hill, the other Noble forced Guilel back with a final burst of fire before vanishing into the night.
The raid had lasted only minutes, but the camp was a wasteland. The air slled of ozone, burnt hide, and blood.
Lucia looked at the destruction in silence. Finally, he drew a long breath. "Olvens, Anastasia. Step forward."
Two middle-tier Knight Commanders stepped out of the ranks, shocked to hear their nas spoken by the Prince.
"Knight Commander Kevin has fallen," Lucia said, his voice steady and solemn. "I need you two to take command. Count the dead, treat the wounded, and reorganize the Storm Knights into two squads. Dispatch a detachnt to escort the remains of our fallen back to Farum Azula imdiately. Understood?"
"Understood!" they barked in unison.
"Elder Muriel, Aegis, Guilel," Lucia turned, his gaze hardening. "Take this 'Noble' to the command tent. We're going to find out who sent him. Elder Atok, tend to your wounds, then join us."
As Lucia walked toward the tent, Guilel watched him with an unreadable expression in her ice-blue eyes. She had viewed him as a coward for accepting the capital's invitation. Yet here he was, having just looked death in the face, commanding the camp with a calm that bordered on the uncanny.
He is unfathomable...
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