10:30 AM. The sun climbed higher into the sky.
In Northveil, the remnants of Rudigor's forces—approximately seven thousand cyborgs—were making a desperate last stand in the northern fortress. But the encirclement was absolute. From the west came Leofric and his remaining tanks. From the east, Thorne and his infantry. From the south, Zoldrak with 201 dragons. And from the heavens, Seraphina with 127.
There was no escape.
Rudigor stood in the center of his dwindling legion. His face was streaked with blood—his own, from wounds he hadn't time to tend. Yet his eyes still burned with an unyielding fire. Even after Martin's fall. Even after Drayk had been reduced to slag. Even after Arctus had plummeted. Even as Varkon, at his side, began to recalculate the grim probabilities.
"My Lord," Varkon said, his mechanical eyes whirring with data. "The probability of victory... three percent."
