The shield pulsed.
A radiant heartbeat of light cascaded across the dome above the Pyramid, its shimmering veil rippling like a living thing. The enemy forces staggered in their charge, several soldiers shielding their eyes as the pulse struck them. For the first time in hours, the defenders inside the protective dome raised their heads.
The wizard had returned.
Captain Bjorn didn't smile. He didn't have time. He lifted his axe and barked orders over the chaos. "Hold the front! Use the sand, every step they take is one we choose for them!"
His company surged forward with renewed fury, boots slamming into the earth, hardened by transfiguration spells moments before. Wands and staffs stabbed downward as warriors flicked sand into wicked shapes spears, jagged rocks, metal-like spikes. They launched in rapid volleys, slicing into the enemy's disorganized advance. Goblins from Grizzak's unit struck from beneath and behind, diving out of secret exits, knives flashing in a blur of savage efficiency before disappearing like smoke.
Bjorn ducked a thrown javelin, rolled to his knees, and skewered a charging centaur clean through the chest with a stone spear he conjured mid-motion. Blood sprayed, hot and sudden. It hit his cheek and steamed in the desert heat. He didn't wipe it off.
Beside him, a young soldier screamed—his arm had been caught in a jagged piece of lightning-charged metal. Bjorn slammed his axe into the enemy that had struck the boy, then hoisted the wounded soldier over his shoulder. "Fall back to Ahmed's circle! Go! Go!"
The soldier staggered toward the healing tents that ringed the base of the Pyramid. There, Captain Ahmed crouched inside a ring of enchantments glowing faint green, blood-soaked hands working rapidly over a body torn apart by a blast spell. His face was grim, sweat dripping from his brow, lips murmuring enchantments in a near-constant rhythm.
"Incoming!" someone screamed.
A wave of shadow-creatures barreled toward the circle. Ahmed didn't flinch. He raised his arm, palm glowing white-hot, and unleashed a barrier that cracked the sand and blew the first three apart in a burst of blinding force. "Cover me!" he bellowed.
His company formed up quickly—half shielding the wounded, the other half flanking with sharp-edged sand javelins and crude, hastily-formed barriers. The ground beneath them turned to pits and spikes—earlier traps designed by Morpheus, activated now by desperation.
"Pulse in ten seconds!" a voice shouted from atop the Pyramid.
Everyone inside the shield braced. On cue, the magical dome rippled again, a boom echoing outward as the formation recharged. The light was stronger this time—clearer, more stable. It didn't flicker.
But it didn't stop the blood.
"Push on the left!" Bjorn roared. "Get them to the slope make them climb!"
His strategy paid off. As the attackers hit the steep banks of sand, their footing failed. Soldiers on the pyramid's ridge pelted them with sharpened stone. Some fell. Others screamed. The sand ran red.
From above, arrows made of light and fire arced down—some divine, others born of conjured flames. A Valkyrie darted through the sky, dodging one blast, only to be hit by a transfigured harpoon thrown from a sand-cannon rigged by goblin sappers. She fell like a star.
"Take her wings," someone growled.
On the east side, Captain Faris barked orders to his ranged specialists. "Draw them into the wind tunnel! Now!"
Magical gusts whipped through a narrow gorge carved behind enemy lines earlier that day. As flying units attempted to circle around, they were sucked into the airflow and slammed into the walls of the canyon. Faris raised a long-bladed spear, pointing it at the spiraling mess of wings and limbs. "Light it."
A soldier hurled a bright-blue crystal, which burst midair, igniting everything it touched. Screams followed.
Still the enemy came.
The shield rippled, slower this time.
"We're losing the glimmer again!" someone shouted.
Ahmed's eyes darted up, face tight. "We need more magic—we're stabilizing, but not fast enough."
As he muttered a new healing spell, he saw a soldier fall with a ragged hole in her chest. Her comrades grabbed her, dragged her back, blood trailing behind like a thread unraveling. Ahmed pressed his hands to her wounds. He didn't hesitate. He didn't blink.
He whispered the chant as the light flowed from his palms into her body, sealing flesh, knitting bone. She gasped, alive again.
Behind him, more were coming. Too many.
The seven of them stood in the shadow of a half-collapsed obelisk, cloaks torn, shoulders tight with exhaustion. They were fresh out of the Academy graduates, just weeks before the war in Britain. But war aged people fast. Their faces were young, but their eyes were not.
Burn scars marked the side of one boy's neck where a fire curse had licked through his ward. A girl with cropped hair flinched every time a loud blast echoed too close—her eardrums had ruptured twice already. Another had a bandage covering half his face, the skin beneath still raw from a glancing acid hex. They shouldn't have been out here—but they were. And they were holding.
"Circle formation," barked Naila, the smallest of them, but somehow the one they all listened to. Her wand hand trembled, but her voice didn't. "Push together, pulse on my count!"
They huddled close, wands up. Enemy shadows broke through the dunes like wraiths faster than they expected.
"One—two—now!"
Seven voices chanted together, different spells but in sync. A ripple of force burst from the center of their formation—slamming into the charging vanguard. Limbs snapped. Sand turned to glass where the concussion hit hardest.
"Counter left! Get that flyer!" yelled Miro, flicking a bolt of red light into the sky. Another followed with a wind burst, spinning the Valkyrie off-course until her wing clipped the shield's edge—she fell, screaming, straight through an anti-magic field they'd seeded earlier.
They didn't cheer. They just repositioned.
"Sniper rune, north dune!" barked Yazid. "I'll blind him wait for the mark!"
He traced a glyph in the air and light bloomed across the battlefield. A second later, Samir's ice javelin ripped from his wand and buried itself in the enemy's throat. Blood sprayed. The rune burned out.
Then silence.
The group stood, panting, waiting for the next wave. Some clutched wounds. One reloaded an enchanted talisman with shaking fingers. None of them spoke.
They weren't elite. They weren't famous. They were kids, thrown into the maw of battle, barely trained but still standing.
And that's all that mattered.
A blast shook the east ridge. Rocks crumbled. Goblins scrambled for cover, hissing curses. Bjorn turned sharply. "Who broke the channel?!"
"Dead mages!" came the call.
Bjorn cursed. "Get a backup transfig in place now! If they flank us—"
The sky rumbled.
All noise stopped.
Even the cries, the clashes, the fire—all of it quieted for a heartbeat.
Then the enemy lines parted.
A ripple passed through their army like an invisible wave. Shields were lowered. Weapons trembled in their grips. And then, through the center of the host, he came.
Thor.
Not the warm-hearted version sung about in old tales. Not the kind-eyed protector.
This was a god of war.
Lightning coiled across his shoulders, tendrils dancing along his arms like living serpents. His eyes burned with raw fury, his hammer—larger than a man—gripped tightly in one hand. The sand turned to glass beneath his steps. His armor crackled with divine heat.
Bjorn took an instinctive step back.
Faris cursed under his breath.
Ahmed stood from his healing circle, eyes widening.
Thor began to run.
And every heartbeat that followed thundered louder than the last.
He charged the shield head-on, lightning curling into a jagged storm behind him.
And from the top of the Pyramid, Morpheus stepped forward, robes fluttering in the charged air, watching the god with a calm, unreadable expression.
The war was far from over.
And the storm had finally come.
—
A/N: We see the sages eye again!