"Hold the fort and charge forward!"
Grand Duchess Amana's voice rang loud and clear above the clamor of steel and the cries of the wounded.
Her silver armor gleamed under the midday sun, blood smeared across her gauntlet as she raised her sword and pointed it toward the fractured enemy lines.
"We've shattered their frontline—don't let this chance slip!"
The clash of her elite so
The enemy, once pressing hard on their defenses, had begun to crumble, their formation unstable and disoriented. Panic flashed across their ranks.
"Drive them back!"
Amana called again, riding her armored steed along the frontline.
"Push them into retreat!"
Her second-in-command, a wiry man with a scar over one eye named General Varron, rode up beside her. His face was tense, lips pulled into a hard line.
"Your Grace—are you certain this is wise? Their numbers still far exceed ours. Even with our elites, we're stretched thin."
He asked, voice low but urgent.
