The Pyre Burst faded.

  The rear ranks of the horde were gone — charred black husks smoking in the badlands, the air thick with the stench of burned flesh and ozone.

  The remaining trolls scattered in panic, soldier trolls running sideways, giants roaring in confusion as their formation broke.

  The camp erupted in cheers — ragged, exhausted, triumphant. Fighters on the walls raised spears and axes, voices hoarse from shouting.

  But on the watch tower, the sound died.

  Rebecca collapsed.

  Her staff clattered to the wooden platform. She fell to one knee, then forward, hands clutching her chest. A wet, choking cough tore from her throat

  “Haa… gah—!” — blood flecking her lips. Her body shook violently, mana backlash ripping through her cracked circles like lightning through glass. “It… burns… everywhere…” she gasped, voice cracking, eyes wide with pain.

  She tried to stand but her legs buckled — “Aaaah—!” — a raw, strangled cry escaping before she could stop it.

  Gray was at her side in an instant, catching her before she hit the ground. “Rebecca!” His voice broke. He held her upright, arms trembling from his own injuries. Tamemoto dropped to his knees beside them, hands hovering, tears already in his eyes — “Rebecca… no…”

  Rebecca forced her head up, eyes glassy but fierce. She looked at Tamemoto, then at Gray.

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  “Tamemoto…” she whispered, struggling to breathe. “Watch… your father… in this fight. He asked me… he wants to show you… something…”

  She coughed again — “Khh…!” — more blood on her lips. Her hand reached weakly for Gray’s. “You… saw it. That’s… what you’ll reach… one day…”

  Gray’s throat tightened. He couldn’t speak. He just held her tighter.

  Below the tower, the remaining trolls regrouped — two warg riders at the front, furious, commanding the scattered soldier trolls to charge again.

  Gauis stood alone in front of the gate, sword in hand.

  The three aura users — Marek, Zhulkar Sandvein, and Sir Rowan Hale — moved to stand beside him, weapons raised, bodies battered but unbowed.

  Sir Rowan saluted — the Avalon way, fist to chest, head bowed.

  “Lord Duelist of the Dawn,” Rowan said, voice steady despite the blood on his armor. “It is my honor to fight on your side.”

  Marek watched from the side, eyes wide. He had been a lieutenant in Solvaris — a rival empire — and he knew the knight culture of Avalon.

  The salute was deep respect, almost reverence. He felt his own heart clench.

  He had left Solvaris behind long ago. Camp Tile was his home now.

  His family was here. He was no longer a soldier of an empire — he was a defender of this fragile place.

  Marek stepped forward.

  “Sir Gauis… I know our sides were enemies once. But right now, we’re both from Tile Camp. I’ll do my best. Please… tell me what to do.”

  Gauis looked at him. Then at Rowan. Then at the approaching trolls.

  He raised his sword — Dawnbreaker, the blade he had carried since his days as a commander, its edge still sharp, runes faintly glowing with dormant power.

  “I will handle these two,” Gauis said quietly. “You rest. There will be more problems after this.”

  He looked up at the watch tower — straight at Gray and Tamemoto.

  He smiled — small, proud, tired.

  Then he burst with aura.

  The air around him tightened. No visible glow — just an invisible pressure, sharp and cutting, like the world itself narrowed around him. The three aura users felt it immediately — a weight, a presence, a legend waking up. Marek’s breath caught.

  Rowan’s eyes widened. Zhulkar’s grip on his hammer tightened.

  Gauis didn’t care about the repercussions.

  His channels were damaged — pushing this far would tear them further — but he didn’t hesitate.

  He just wanted to show his kids how to fight.

  He stepped forward.

  The warg riders charged.

  Gauis met them head-on.