Commander Tony Twinwoods urged his horse forward, eyes scanning the battlefield as he shouted orders to his cavalry. The Alanorian horsemen, once the spearhead of their attack, were now scattered, their momentum shattered by the relentless Galdorian resistance. Tony knew they had to regroup, had to strike back if they were to turn the tide. But the situation was dire; the Galdorian archers had nearly neutralized their cavalry, and without the swift, decisive strikes from his men, their chances of holding the line dwindled with each passing moment.
"Regroup! Form up!" Tony bellowed, his voice hoarse from shouting. The remnants of his cavalry rallied around him, but their numbers were dwindling, and the once-strong formation was now a ragged line of weary, bloodied men and horses.
Meanwhile, the Allied mages, still in the rear, continued their bombardment. Fireballs, lightning bolts, and bursts of raw energy flew from their hands, crashing into the Galdorian ranks and leaving devastation in their wake. The mages' relentless onslaught inflicted heavy casualties on the enemy, forcing them to pause and regroup, giving the Alanorian infantry a brief respite.
But something felt off. Samuel, watching the battlefield with a critical eye, couldn't shake the nagging feeling that something was wrong. He turned to Thorian, who stood beside him, his gaze fixed on the chaotic scene below.
"Your Majesty, why aren't the Galdorian mages responding?" Samuel's voice was laced with unease. "They should have countered by now. But there's nothing, no defense spells, no retaliation. It doesn't make sense."
Thorian frowned, his mind racing as he considered Samuel's words. "You're right," he replied, his voice calm but thoughtful. "They're too quiet. Either they're holding back for a reason, or they're planning something. But what?"
The two commanders exchanged a worried glance. They both knew the Galdorian mages were formidable opponents, known for their cunning and tactical acumen. For them to remain silent in the face of such a fierce attack was unusual, troubling, even.
And then, as if on cue, a massive veil of shimmering energy began to form around the entire battlefield. The air itself seemed to ripple as the veil expanded, stretching over both armies, enclosing them within its confines. The Allied mages, still focused on their assault, suddenly faltered. Their spells fizzled out midair, the mana that fueled their magic suddenly gone.
"Fuck!" one of the mages cursed loudly, his voice echoing the sentiment of all his comrades. The Galdorian mages had finally revealed themselves, and it was clear they had laid a trap, one the Allied forces had walked into blindly.
Thorian's heart sank as he realized what was happening. The Galdorian mages had been meticulously concealing themselves, all the while casting this anti-magic field over the battlefield. The veil now made the mana inside unstable and chaotic, rendered anyone within it unable to draw upon their mana, effectively neutralizing the Allied mages.
"This is bad," Samuel muttered, his eyes wide with horror as he realized the full extent of their predicament. "They've cut us off. Our mages are useless."
The balance had shifted drastically. With no magical support, the almost eight thousand remaining Alanorian soldiers were now facing the full might of the strong Galdorian army, numbering more than twenty-eight thousand. Despite the heavy casualties they had inflicted, the Galdorians still outnumbered them three to one, and without the support of their mages, the Alanorians were at a severe disadvantage.
"Retreat!" Thorian ordered, his voice cutting through the chaos. He knew they couldn't hold their position any longer, not without magic, not against such overwhelming odds. "Fall back!"
The Alanorian soldiers, already weary from the relentless battle, began a slow and painful retreat. The Galdorian army, sensing victory, pressed forward with renewed vigor. Their focus was singular: break through the Alanorian front line and slaughter the mages before they could escape the anti-magic barrier.
The Alanorian infantry fought desperately, their swords flashing as they clashed with the advancing Galdorians. Blood stained the earth as both sides exchanged blows, but the Alanorians were being pushed back, inch by bloody inch. The commanders shouted themselves hoarse, urging their men to hold the line, to fight with everything they had as they slowly retreated.
The battlefield became a gruesome tableau of grit and determination. The Galdorian forces, emboldened by their advantage, surged forward, cutting down the retreating Alanorians with ruthless efficiency. The air was thick with the screams of the dying, the clash of steel, and the relentless march of the Galdorian soldiers.
At the rear, the Alanorian mages, now powerless, watched in growing fear as the Galdorians closed in on them. Maria's face was pale, her eyes wide with terror. Beside her, Sebastian's usually calm demeanor was shattered, his expression one of pure dread. They had become sitting ducks, vulnerable and defenseless without their magic.
Yet, amidst the chaos, King Thorian remained eerily calm. Sweat beaded on his forehead, but his mind was sharp, calculating. He reached down to his belt and pulled out a small Dual Stone. His fingers clenched around it, and with a swift motion, he crushed it in his palm. The stone crumbled to dust, releasing a small, bright spark that radiated briefly before disappearing into the air.