Skeld lay on the ground, pressing his shield tight against his chest.

  The swarm circled above him—hammering against the metal, forcing its way into the gaps of his armor, into his face, into his thoughts. He knew they weren’t real bodies, but the pain was real. His hands trembled, his muscles refused to obey, and every attempt to rise ended the same way—the world tilting violently out of place.

  While Skeld was trapped under the Suggestion, Rianes stood nearby.

  He fought almost blind, never stepping back, never allowing the enemy to finish off his fallen comrade. Blows came from every direction. The Vishaps tried to exploit the moment—but Rianes held. Bitterly. Stubbornly. No longer thinking about formation or retreat.

  And then the swarm shuddered.

  Powerful gusts of wind tore through it—breaking its trajectory, ripping apart its density, dragging it away from Skeld’s body. The insects scattered in the air, as if yanked aside by an invisible thread.

  It was Katarina.

  She stood farther back, stretched to her limit, using her own Suggestion to disrupt Sivash’s control—to interfere with another will, to break the rhythm of the attack. It didn’t stop the Suggestion completely—but it gave Skeld a few minutes.

  That was enough.

  He rolled heavily, pushed himself up onto one knee, then onto his feet. The world still swayed, but his hands held his weapon again. Skeld forced his way back into the fight, supporting Rianes, Feren, and Naelis as they fought off the advancing Vishaps.

  Somewhere behind the barricades, Sivash watched the battlefield.

  He couldn’t see Katarina—but he felt her. And he understood. This was no longer a quick strike. Now it was a battle of attrition. And he accepted it.

  He couldn’t affect her directly with Suggestion. To do that, he would have needed to see her with his own eyes. But he could do it through others—and wait until she burned herself out from the inside, shielding her companions.

  The suggestion was not only about striking. It was about pressure. About exhaustion.

  Sivash chose those holding Rianes’s flank—near the mountains, where the mercenaries were still fighting off the Vishaps.

  He raised the mace slowly.

  The ground shuddered.

  Stones began to roll down the slopes—first in scattered chunks, then as a continuous flow. It swept everything in its path, gathering debris, tearing rock from rock, growing larger with every second.

  Feren turned—and saw the stone rushing toward them. He didn’t think. Instinct made him leap sharply aside.

  But the flow stopped. Tree roots burst through the stone. They grew straight out of the rock, entwined, clenched the boulders, and held them fast—like living chains.

  Katarina.

  Feren—and those near him—suddenly found themselves in the center of a different kind of battle. Not with the Vishaps. With Suggestion. Their lives were no longer decided by blows or speed, but by endurance. By which of the two Suggestors would break first? Who would fail?

  The Vishaps understood this. They didn’t dare move closer. Any step could throw them under Sivash’s mace—or into Katarina’s influence. So they stopped. And watched. They waited.

  Sivash did not stop. This time, he changed his approach.

  The ground beneath the mercenaries split open and ignited. Fire surged upward—fast, violent—cutting off the path of retreat. The flames crept closer, breath turned hot, the air heavy and bitter. Instinctively, everyone recoiled from the cracking earth and scrambled onto the rocks, searching for any kind of footing.

  And again, Katarina intervened. Sharp gusts of wind struck the fire, broke its direction, tore the tongues of flame apart, and extinguished them one by one. The smoke dispersed as suddenly as it had appeared.

  The battle continued. Without shouts. Without advancing. Just pressure against pressure. And every secondcostst more than a blade strike.

  Sivash’s third attack came from the sky. Dense clouds closed in instantly, as if someone had slammed a lid over the battlefield. The light vanished. The sunny day ended abruptly, without transition.

  Rain poured from the clouds.

  Thick. Piercing. It did not fall in drops—but as a solid curtain. It scorched the skin, ate through fabric, and left marks on armor. This was not water. It was something else.

  Katarina didn’t know what it was. And she didn’t know how to stop it. No one did. Except Sivash. If he could suggest this, then he had seen it with his own eyes. Lived through it. Remembered it. And now he was giving it back, without mercy and without choosing targets.

  The Suggestion was too intense. Not only were the mercenaries caught in it, but his own soldiers as well. The Vishaps began to retreat chaotically, in fear, leaving open space between themselves and the mercenaries.

  The affected zone only kept expanding. More and more fighters found themselves beneath the burning rain.

  Skeld and those around him sheltered behind their shields. The metal heated quickly, burning their hands, but it was still better than exposed skin. Naelis hid among the rocks, pressing herself against the cold stone.

  The rain was already melting metal and growing stronger.

  Katerina, together with two Suggestors of the Red Breach, tried to resist it. They struck with gusts of wind, blew the curtain aside, tore it open, buying seconds for their allies.

  But their strength drained fast. Breathing turned ragged. Suggestion grew heavier. Control slipped away. Sivash was stronger. Much stronger. And this was even though Katerina had already reached the fourth stage.

  The Glass in her mace thickened. It darkened, turning almost black. The skin on her hand dried out and cracked, and the dryness crept relentlessly upward—to her wrist, her forearm, higher, toward her face.

  The Compact’s Suggestors were losing. And with them, all the mercenaries.

  Katerina was already beginning to lose consciousness when everything abruptly stopped.

  The rain vanished. The clouds parted as if they had never existed. Light returned sharply, painfully—sunbeams cut through the battlefield, fell on wet ground, on scorched metal, on people who a moment earlier had been waiting for death.

  The reason was Syra. On her fourth attempt, she hit. The arrow pierced Sivash’s arm—the same one with which he held the great mace on the pedestal. The strike was precise and final. His fingers unclenched, and the power broke.

  “Shit!” burst from Sivash.

  He frantically tried to find whoever had shot him. His gaze slid along the battle lines, over the barricades, over the movement of people—but the enemy archers were too far away, beyond visibility.

  Except for one figure. Syra stood on the rocks. Sivash looked at her and didn’t believe it. That distance. That angle. Impossible. But memory immediately supplied something else—Hukan’s report. About an archer who, from five hundred meters, had struck his aurochs with a poisoned arrow. The beast had held on for several days—then died.

  If you spot this tale on Amazon, know that it has been stolen. Report the violation.

  Sivash clenched his teeth. He abandoned the pedestal and called for a healer to make sure there was no poison. For him, the battle was over. He was neutralized. The Suggestion was gone. And with it, the advantage that had nearly destroyed the mercenaries.

  From that point on, the defenders’ hope rested on one thing alone. On Ranuver’s decisions.

  The fighters who were still alive began to shake off the effects of the Suggestion. Consciousness returned in fragments, with pain and a ringing in their heads. And almost immediately, everyone noticed the main thing: the camp’s defenders, shielding themselves from the Suggestion, had fallen back. Between them and the mercenaries lay roughly twenty meters of empty ground.

  It was a chance.

  The mercenaries didn’t hesitate. They regrouped quickly and started leaving the battlefield—without trying to hold positions, without looking back.

  The Rejecteds and the Vishaps failed to pull themselves together as fast. They shoved one another, tangled up, tried to force a fight—and lost time.

  Skeld, Rianes, Feren, and Naelis understood: now or never.

  There would be no second chance.

  Syra joined them—she leapt down from the rocks and, without slowing, ran alongside them. The group surged along the mountains, through a still-open stretch of terrain the enemy hadn’t managed to block.

  The Vishaps hesitated. For a few seconds. That was enough to fall behind.

  All that remained was to skirt the burning trebuchets—and the path would be open. A few dozen meters more. Just a little farther.

  Then, at that very moment, one of the burning trebuchets collapsed with a roar. It dragged others down with it, snapping frames, toppling beams, choking the passage. The fire flared brighter—and the route of retreat vanished.

  Blocked. But they didn’t stop. The group veered sharply and began scrambling upward, over rocks and slopes, fighting off the Vishaps who were already catching them from below. Blows, shouts, slick stone underfoot—everything blurred together.

  The retreat turned into a climb.

  And the mercenary clans were already leaving the battlefield.

  Someone shouted from the crowd:

  “Atrion! Atrion! They won’t make it!”

  Atrion was already beyond the edge of the battle. He stood on the same hill from which the charge of his cavalry had once begun. He stood motionless, looking down. His brothers-in-arms were withdrawing from the field, climbing the hill under the cover of archers—wounded, exhausted, but alive.

  And farther below, at a distance, others were still holding on. Rianes. Skeld. Feren. Syra. Naelis.

  They didn’t make it. They were climbing the hill, fighting back against the Vishaps who never broke pursuit. Where they ended up, the ground was favorable—but only temporarily. A small rocky knoll. A single approach. Stone and ledges offered cover from enemy archers, reducing the threat of a frontal assault. A position that could be held.

  For a while.

  Atrion watched them from afar and understood: the battle was already over for him.

  But for them, not yet. Attacking the mercenaries here was difficult. The Vishaps came one by one, and each was dealt with quickly. A trail of bodies stretched along the path where Rianes and his brothers had passed. Every new assault only lengthened it.

  Hukan entered the fight as well.

  He waited for the moment when Skeld raised his shield against another blow, then lunged sharply forward—straight at Rianes. The strike was fast and vicious.

  Rianes made it. He slipped aside, parried the attack, and immediately stepped back. The ground was ill-suited for a duel: narrow, loose stone underfoot, little room to maneuver.

  But the fight did not stop. Instead, Feren stepped forward.

  He entered the clash abruptly, without pause. Blows rained down one after another—heavy, precise. Hukan couldn’t keep up. He tried to match the tempo, but Feren was faster, harsher, surer. Better. One of Hukan’s fighters rushed in, trying to cover his commander, but Feren dealt with him as well—quickly, without losing focus on the main target.

  Behind him, Skeld covered his back.

  Vishaps began to close in from all sides. One after another. They pressed closer, tightening the ring, trying to fully encircle the mercenaries.

  Rianes swept his gaze over the position—and understood.

  “Back!” he shouted. “Back! Not here! Fall back!”

  The ground was wrong for this fight.

  The knoll itself favored defense—but not this part of it. Too cramped. Too easy for the ring to close. Rianes saw it.

  And Hukan saw it too. He tried to seize the moment.

  Feren wanted to finish the commander quickly. One sharp move—then withdraw. He had already wounded one of Hukan’s men; the fighter was retreating, staggering. Only one target remained.

  And at that very moment, someone burst out from the flank—one of the Rejecteds. Not a strong soldier. Not a dangerous fighter. Just a man seized by fear. He swung chaotically, without calculation, and hurled an axe at Feren. It was a foolish decision. Reckless. Almost suicidal.

  Feren didn’t expect it. He didn’t have time to deflect the blow.

  The axe struck him in the neck.

  The Rejected froze, as if unable to believe what had happened. Feren clutched at his throat, took a step back—and fell.

  Hukan didn’t hesitate. He sprang up instantly, finished Feren off, and without looking back ran higher up the slope.

  “Bitch!” Rianes screamed, his voice tearing.

  “Skeld, back! Back!”

  “Bog filth!” Skeld roared.

  He lunged after Hukan, slammed his shield into his back, and swung his axe. Hukan panicked, stumbled, scrambled away—and slipped off the slope, vanishing below.

  The Vishap fighter behind him didn’t even have time to understand what was happening. Skeld was already there. Two blows with the blade—fast, without pause. The body split and fell.

  Skeld spun around sharply. Feren wasn’t moving. No breath. No convulsions. He had died instantly.

  Rianes rushed up from behind, grabbed Skeld by the arm, and hauled him upward, taking advantage of the Vishaps’ fear and the fact that their pressure had broken.

  “Come on. Now.”

  They withdrew. And Feren’s body remained where he had fallen.

  By then, the mercenaries had almost reached the hill.

  Atrion saw everything. Feren was dead. A few Vishaps still tried to press Rianes and those who remained with him, but the others didn’t dare. Rianes’s fighters had bought time—at a terrible price.

  Atrion rapidly judged the distance, the number of men, and the possible direction of a strike. There was no time—either a decision was made now, or not at all.

  The fighters, barely alive after the Suggestion were being led off the battlefield. They moved slowly, supporting one another. Among them was Katerina—exhausted, hollow-eyed, her beauty and youth stripped away by the Suggestion; she was being carried on horseback. Archers covered the retreat.

  Balrek’s heavy arrows punched through the Rejecteds’ armor, and they didn’t risk pursuit—hugging the ground, hiding behind bodies and debris.

  But from the flank, almost along the very edge of the maw, another threat was moving. The Rejecteds’ cavalry. They advanced fast, dangerously close to the cliff. Ranuver no longer feared a collapse—the risk was justified. He needed only one thing: to close the situation.

  The question was where to commit the cavalry. Try to break through to Rianes. Or stop this maneuver by the enemy riders.

  The decision was almost formed.

  And then the sound of a horn rang out. Rianes’s horn. But not a rally. Not a call for aid. It was a retreat signal. A signal that meant only one thing: do not attempt to evacuate them.

  Atrion tensed. Below, Rianes lowered the horn, beat back a Vishap that lunged at him, finished it, and raised the horn to his lips again.

  The same sound. No pause. No hesitation. Confirmation. The first signal had not been a mistake. There was no choice left.

  Atrion had to withdraw. And leave those who were still on the battlefield.

  It was a rule not debated. Though formally, Atrion was the head of The Compact, the commander on the battlefield was always the one who had begun the fight. And this time, that was Rianes.

  Atrion clenched his teeth.

  “Take whoever we can,” he ordered. “And we’re out.”

  The mercenaries began to pull back. And the battlefield slowly swallowed those left behind.

  The heavy cavalry of the Red Breach dealt confidently with the Rejecteds’ light riders, and they withdrew almost without a fight. There was no one left to pursue the retreat.

  Scattered skirmishes still flickered across the battlefield, but the battle itself was over. Fighters patched each other up, bound wounds, and in some places—without words—finished off those too badly injured to survive. The mercenaries who hadn’t managed to withdraw were taken prisoner—exhausted, bled dry, offering no resistance.

  The only place where the fighting had not yet died was the knoll with Rianes. The Vishaps surrounded it from all sides but did not hurry. They kept their distance, waited, unwilling to charge head-on. Assaults had already proven too costly.

  Hukan tried to organize another attack, but Ranuver stopped him. The enemies were surrounded and trapped—there was nowhere for them to go. Risking more soldiers made no sense.

  The camp’s defenders claimed a doubtful victory. They lost their siege engines and many fighters, but gained something else—valuable prisoners. And they destroyed one of the enemy clans.