The cyclops’ colossal blow crashed into Baronsworth’s chest like a falling tower. The impact hurled him through the air; he struck the temple steps with bone-jarring force.

  Any ordinary man would have been obliterated where he fell—but the Elven-forged armor blunted the worst of it, and the unyielding strength of Asturian bone kept him from death.

  By some miracle, he lived. But barely. His armor hung in tatters, his breath came ragged, and pain throbbed in every nerve.

  Darkness crept at the edges of his sight, heavy and beckoning. Silence opened before him—endless, still, whispering release. He felt himself slipping, drawn into that serene abyss.

  And then—light. She stood before him, radiant and near. Alma. Her hair stirred by an unseen breeze, her eyes brimming with the promise of dawn. She did not speak, yet her presence was a summons stronger than any voice. In that form she was Elf-maiden and something beyond—luminous, otherworldly, sublime.

  His heart lurched. With a ragged gasp he clung to the sight, refusing the dark. His hand found Lightbringer, the sword anchoring him to the world of the living.

  The vision faded—agony remained. Each breath was fire in his chest; every thought wavered on the brink of collapse. For the first time since entering the Felwood, fear seized him—cold and choking. The end closed about him, and no path forward revealed itself. His strength was gone. His will was breaking.

  “No!” Karl’s cry tore through the chaos. The others faltered, horror stark in their eyes—their champion lay broken in the dust. Karl rushed to his side, shield raised, even as the Orcs, scenting blood, surged with renewed fury.

  “Puny human!” Brogg roared, its single eye blazing. “You lose! Now you all die! Kill them! Kill them all!”

  The cyclops no longer pressed its attack. The deep gash in its leg had sapped its might. Limping, it hung back, content to let the swarm of Orcs finish the work.

  And in that moment of despair, as the dark closed in, another voice stirred—deep, remembered. His father’s voice:

  When your strength is spent, my son, trust in the strength of the gods.

  For the first time in years—since the day he left his homeland—Baronsworth clasped his hands in prayer. His voice was raw, desperate:

  “Goddess Sophia… if you can hear me… if you care at all for us mortals… then help me now, for my need is dire.”

  At once, a warmth stirred in his chest. Faint, but real. And with it—clearer than thought—came a voice:

  Get to the Crystal. Now.

  “Karl—help me,” he rasped. The warrior hauled him to his feet.

  “Ulric!” Baronsworth’s voice cracked like a whip across the courtyard. “Where is the Crystal?”

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  “In the back! Across the courtyard!” the old knight shouted.

  Baronsworth staggered to the top of the steps, Karl bracing him. He turned to the others, forcing his voice to carry above the chaos:

  “My friends—hold them here. Give me time!”

  Then, to Karl, low enough for only him to hear:

  “Remember the Medean fire.”

  The defenders’ line held firm, shields braced against the tide. From their perch on the temple steps, they fought with the advantage of height, steel ringing and spears thrusting in measured rhythm. Though still badly outnumbered, Baronsworth’s duel had bought them two precious gifts: the cyclops was out of the fight—at least for now—and his stand had given his allies time to catch their breath.

  And so, in honor of their champion, their lives, and the gods, the guardians of the temple fought now with renewed fury.

  “Stand fast! Give Baronsworth the time he needs!” Ulric’s voice cut through the din as his blade split the skull of an Orc that vaulted towards him.

  Karl sprinted to the travel packs and seized the flasks of Medean fire Solon had given them. He thrust several to Gil’Galion and Fredrick, setting the rest just behind the defensive ring of knights.

  “Here—use these!” he called.

  They hurled the flasks into the onrushing horde. The clay vessels shattered, and the courtyard erupted in fire. Blooms of gold and crimson roared outward, searing flesh and shattering ranks. Orcs shrieked in panic, thrashing as the unquenchable flames devoured them. Those that lived fled in all directions, howling, leaving a scorched barricade between the defenders and the horde.

  “That should buy us some time!” Karl shouted over the crackle of the blaze.

  By then, Baronsworth had vanished from sight.

  He had crossed the temple without looking back, fearing what he might see if he did. His steps carried him down the rear stairs into a vast courtyard, its cracked paving stones flanked by ancient, crumbling buildings and ringed by a high wall as old as the temple itself. Rows of crops and fruit trees swayed in the wind, strangely serene amidst the chaos.

  Beyond them, pressed against the mountainside, rose a long stairway hewn from the living rock. At its summit stood the Crystal shrine, faintly aglow.

  Baronsworth limped towards it, each step a battle. The wound in his side burned, his breath came ragged, and every jolt of motion sent knives through his ribs. Still, he pressed on.

  The stairs loomed before him. He climbed, stumbling, catching himself on the stone rail. Sheer will drove him upward. The glow ahead grew stronger—too strong—bleeding through the haze of his failing vision.

  He reached the shrine’s threshold and staggered inside, hand dragging blood across the faded murals that lined the narrow hall.

  At last, he stepped into the chamber.

  Light struck him like a blow—searing, absolute. He staggered, half-blinded. The Crystal fragment floated at the center, just as Ulric had said—but the light was wrong.

  In his visions, it had shone with the warm gold of sunrise, a light that wrapped the heart in peace.

  Here, it burned with shades of crimson and black, writhing together like a living wound.

  The beauty was gone.

  Only a twisted radiance remained, heavy and oppressive, pressing on his chest like the weight of a closing fist.

  Baronsworth limped toward the Crystal, each step drawing a sharper hum from its core. Sparks danced across its facets—first faint, then blazing, crackling like a storm trapped in glass. The light flared in erratic bursts, hurling wild shadows across the shrine’s walls.

  The air grew heavier, pressing on his chest until each breath came ragged. The oppressive force gnawed at his resolve, whispering that to take one step closer would be to invite ruin.

  Fear coiled in his gut.

  But he clenched his teeth. I cannot turn back now. My friends are counting on me.

  Summoning the last dregs of his strength, he stepped forward and laid his hand upon the Crystal.

  A jolt like molten lightning tore through him, flooding every vein, every nerve. His vision flared white. The floor heaved as the shrine shuddered, stones groaning, dust cascading from above.

  Then the world split open.

  With a wrenching pull, the chamber vanished, and Baronsworth was swept into a blinding rush, as though the Crystal itself had hurled him beyond the bounds of earth.