Last Battle Part 2

The thunder of hooves and cannons roared across the valley.

Armand Roux stood in the heart of the battlefield, bloodied but unyielding. His forces were splintering. The flanking units had been decimated by the hidden Elysean cavalry, and the center—his own position—was slowly being pushed back under the relentless pressure of Masséna's disciplined advance.

Still, he fought.

His saber was slick with blood, his coat torn, his breath ragged. Around him, the wounded screamed, the dead lay still, and the mud turned red beneath a sky that refused to rain.

He could feel it—the moment slipping away.

"Hold the line!" Roux shouted, slashing his blade downward. "Do not give them the town!"

Giraud was beside him, face cut and smeared with ash. "We're losing ground, Marshal!"

"I know!" Roux growled.

Another volley of musket fire tore into their left flank. Men collapsed. The rebels were faltering.