The battlefield was a cacophony of clashing steel, shouts, and the cries of the wounded. But the tide had begun to shift decisively. Mara’s men, emboldened by her commanding presence and the fall of the unchanneled mage, pushed back the Sorenputhran soldiers with a newfound ferocity.

  The enemy lines wavered, soldiers hesitating with swords half-raised as doubt took root in their minds. A captain barked orders to hold the formation, but his voice cracked with uncertainty. One soldier stumbled back, and then another turned and bolted. That hesitation spread like a sickness. The once-formidable wall of Sorenputhran steel buckled, opening gaps wide enough for Mara's men to drive in like a wedge. Emboldened by their sudden advantage, the Aldric soldiers roared as they surged forward. The enemy’s morale crumbled faster than their lines, and fear swallowed whatever strength they had left. They had lost their prince and now their unchanneled mage; defeat hung heavy in the air.

  The clash of steel against steel reverberated across the battlefield, echoing like the tolling of a grim bell. Mara was a force of nature, her fire-infused sword blazing as she charged headlong into the fray. She cut through the Sorenputhran lines like a hot knife through butter, her strikes leaving arcs of flame in their wake. Her soldiers, seeing her relentless advance, found their own strength renewed. They surged forward, hacking and slashing, driving the enemy back step by step.

  Varaxes, the Sorenputhran general, was a towering figure amidst the chaos. His face was a mask of controlled fury as he barked orders to his captains. He wielded a massive, two-handed sword that crackled with an emerald light. Channeling plant magic, he slammed the blade into the ground. A wave of green energy pulsed outward, and thick vines erupted from the earth, twisting and writhing as they shot towards Mara’s advancing soldiers.

  The vines lashed out like whips, entangling the legs of Aldric’s men and pulling them to the ground. The soldiers struggled, hacking at the thick tendrils, but the plant magic was relentless, binding them tighter with every attempt to break free. Mara’s lieutenant was caught off guard, a vine wrapping around his neck, lifting him off his feet. He clawed at the choking grip, his face turning purple.

  “Hold the line!” Mara shouted, her voice cutting through the cries of her trapped soldiers. She sprinted forward, her sword blazing even brighter as she cleaved through the thick vines. One tendril lashed her arm, tearing her sleeve and drawing blood. She gritted her teeth and slashed in a wide arc, flames bursting from her blade in a searing wave. The fire roared to life, devouring the vines as they writhed and curled like dying insects. The charred remnants crumbled to ash beneath her boots. She sliced through the vine holding her lieutenant, who fell to the ground, gasping for breath but nodding gratefully.

  Varaxes’s breath came in ragged bursts, his chest heaving as beads of sweat dripped from his brow. His men were breaking, and now his magic — the magic he’d honed since childhood — was failing him. He bared his teeth in frustration and slammed his sword into the earth. The emerald energy that flared from the blade felt heavier than before, more sluggish, as though even the land resisted him now. “Come on,” he muttered through clenched teeth. Thick roots shot from the ground, coiling into a jagged wall of thorns, but their growth was slower, less fierce. The roots twisted and curled, forming a wall of jagged thorns.

  “Is that all you’ve got?” Mara taunted, her eyes blazing with fury. She swung her sword in a wide arc, unleashing a wave of fire that collided with the thorn barrier. The flames roared to life, consuming the dry wood, the heat so intense it singed the hair of the nearby soldiers. The wall of thorns burned to ash, clearing the path once more.

  Varaxes clenched his jaw, sweat pouring down his face. He knew the tide was turning against him but refused to give in. His power was fading, and he knew it. He raised his sword high, summoning a massive tendril of ivy that shot towards Mara, intending to crush her beneath its weight. Mara leaped into the air, her sword trailing flames as she sliced downwards. The blade cut through the tendril, severing it cleanly in two. The severed pieces writhed on the ground before withering away into dust.

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  The Sorenputhran soldiers watched in horror as their general’s most powerful attacks were countered and destroyed by the blazing warrior before them. Their once-steady formation wavered, the fear spreading like wildfire through their ranks. Varaxes saw the fear in his men’s eyes, the cracks forming in their morale. Desperate to turn the tide, he charged at Mara himself, his sword trailing a veil of green light as he swung with all his might.

  Mara met his charge head-on, their swords clashing with a thunderous impact that sent a shockwave rippling through the battlefield. The force of the blow staggered the soldiers around them, and for a moment, it seemed like the ground itself shuddered beneath the weight of their clash. Varaxes snarled, pushing forward, but Mara held her ground. Her fire-infused blade burned brighter, the flames licking up Varaxes’s sword, forcing him to recoil.

  She took advantage of his momentary hesitation, launching into a series of rapid strikes. Her sword was a blur of motion, each swing leaving a fire trail that scorched the air. Varaxes parried desperately, but Mara’s onslaught was relentless. She landed a heavy blow to his side, the flames searing through his armor. He stumbled back, pain etched across his face.

  Retreat!” Varaxes bellowed, his voice cracked and desperate. The word seemed to hang in the air, foreign and unthinkable. His soldiers stood frozen for a heartbeat — then their ranks broke. Some ran in orderly columns, but most scattered like leaves in a gale. Shields clattered to the ground, forgotten. One soldier threw down his spear and sprinted, only to be cut down by an Aldric blade. Another captain, face streaked with blood, dragged a wounded comrade across the field before vanishing into the chaos. Varaxes turned back just in time to see his banners — proud, crimson cloths embroidered with the Sorenputhran sigil — fall face-first into the mud.

  Mara watched them retreat, her chest heaving as she caught her breath. She raised her sword high, a triumphant roar escaping her lips. “We’ve won this day!” she shouted, her voice carrying across the battlefield. Her men, battered but victorious, echoed her cry, filling the air with a defiant, victorious roar.

  Linus stood at the edge of the chaos, observing the retreat with a calculated calm. He noticed Marcus approaching, his lieutenant’s face set in grim determination. Linus gave a subtle nod, acknowledging the success of their maneuver. Marcus nodded back, but Linus’s eyes caught something unsettling as he moved past—a flicker of movement in the distance.

  Another Marcus, far off, directing troops.

  Linus blinked, his gaze shifting between the two figures — Marcus standing beside him and Marcus farther off, shouting commands to soldiers. His mind scrambled for an explanation, but no logic made sense. Then, cold fire bloomed in his chest. The breath fled from his lungs. His fingers reached instinctively for the source of the pain and found the hilt of a dagger buried deep in his side. His thoughts blurred, unraveling like torn thread. He staggered back, breath shallow and wheezing.

  It was as though all the mana in his body had been ripped away, leaving him weak and disoriented. He looked down in shock, feeling a sharp pain radiate from his side. The hilt of a dagger protruded from his abdomen, blood staining his clothes.

  He staggered back, turning slowly to face the attacker. As his vision blurred, he watched the figure before him shift, the features melting away like wax under heat. The false Marcus’s face contorted and morphed, revealing the sharp, angular features of someone entirely different. The air around them seemed to shimmer as the magic-suppressing dagger drained the last remnants of Linus’s power, forcing the shapeshifter’s true form into the light.

  A shapeshifter, Linus realized, just as his knees buckled. He tried to call on his shadow magic, but it was as if a void had swallowed every ounce of his power. Linus gasped, struggling to draw breath as the cold seeped through his limbs. He opened his mouth to shout a warning, but his voice was a thin rasp. Blood bubbled in his throat. The shapeshifter smirked, their gaze sharp and satisfied. Linus’s legs buckled, and he crumpled to the earth. His fingers dug into the dirt, cold and damp beneath his palm. The sounds of the battlefield dimmed, swallowed by the encroaching dark. The last thing he felt was the warmth of his blood pooling around him, fading fast.

  As darkness began to take him, he saw the shapeshifter smirking. Their form had shifted once again to resemble Marcus, who walked away with a confident stride.

  Linus crumpled to the ground, the sounds of battle fading into a distant echo. He felt the cold seep into his bones as the world went dark.