The air in Geneviève's lungs was gone. The black spots at the edges of her vision were devouring the light. Mallobaude laughed, a wet, gurgling sound, as his claws began to bend the metal of her helm to peel it open like a ripe fruit. He thought he had won. He thought he held only a strong warrior, a mortal who had dared too much.
He did not know that Geneviève was not trying to break free with muscle power. In that instant of agony, suspended between life and death, Geneviève closed her eyes. There was no panic. There was only silence. She abandoned fear. She abandoned the pain of her crushed throat. She retreated deep into her spirit, to that place where the discipline of steel meets the blessing of the Lady.
It was not arcane magic. It was Pure Will. The holy crystal set in the pommel of Vesper's Light began to pulse, not with white light, but with unbearable heat. Geneviève let that burning faith flow through her right arm, through the hilt, into the blade. And then, she made it flow back into herself.
Geneviève opened her eyes. From the slit of her visor came not a human gaze, but two beams of golden light. Mallobaude stopped laughing. He felt a sudden, searing heat radiating from the armor he was crushing. The black Gromril became incandescent. "What..."
Geneviève did not speak. She couldn't. She raised her left hand and grabbed the wrist of the vampire strangling her. The contact was devastating. Undead flesh against channeled Faith. There was a sizzling sound, like meat thrown on a hot griddle. Black smoke rose from Mallobaude's arm. The Vampire screamed, a cry of pure pain, and instinctively opened his hand.
Geneviève fell. But she didn't hit the ground like a heavy sack. She hit the ground like a coiled spring. As soon as her boots touched the mud, she used the impact to generate rotation. She didn't lose a millisecond. While Mallobaude looked at his burned hand, Geneviève was already moving.
It wasn't a wild slash. It was the cleanest, most perfect and absolute movement of her life. A single horizontal arc. Vesper's Light sang a very high note, almost imperceptible. The blade, infused with holy power, met no resistance. It cut the air. It cut the Vampire's protective magic. It cut the black iron gorget. It cut the ancient flesh and the bone of the spine.
Geneviève ended the movement on one knee, sword extended to the maximum, motionless as a statue. Behind her, Mallobaude remained standing for a heartbeat. Then, gravity claimed its toll. The Black Knight's head slid slowly from his shoulders. It fell into the mud with a dull thud, rolling two meters to stop with its face turned toward the grey sky. The headless body collapsed immediately after, like a puppet whose strings have been cut.
The effect was immediate and catastrophic for the enemy army. Without the iron will of their Lord to keep them bound to this plane of existence, the necromantic magic fell apart. Across the plain of Mousillon, thousands of skeletons collapsed into piles of inanimate bones. Varghulfs roared in confusion before dissolving into dust. The Blood Knights, though independent vampires, felt the psychic shock of their leader's death and faltered, stunned, quickly overwhelmed by the charging Bretonnian cavalry.
A shout of triumph rose from the ranks of Quenelles, Bastonne, and Aquitaine. "VICTORY! THE BLACK KING HAS FALLEN!"
Tancred rode toward Geneviève, his face lit by wild joy. Tristan was crying and laughing at the same time. They had won. Against all odds, they had decapitated the serpent.
But Geneviève did not rise. She remained on her knees, rasping breath burning her bruised throat. She stared at Mallobaude's head. And she saw the horror. The vampire's eyes were still open. And they were moving. The pale lips curled into a smile revealing bloody teeth. Even in death, the blood curse maintained a semblance of life in the severed head.
"You think... you think you have won, little knight?" The voice did not come from the throat, but seemed to resonate directly in Geneviève's mind, croaking and weak.
Geneviève stood up with difficulty, pointing her sword at the head. "Your army is dust, Mallobaude. Mousillon is free."
The head laughed, a dry cough. "Mousillon? Mousillon was... a diversion. A disposable pawn to keep the 'noble heroes' of Bretonnia busy." The red eyes fixed on Geneviève with triumphant malice. "While you played war here in the mud... while Tancred emptied his garrisons to come south... the true summoning was completed."
Geneviève felt a cold shiver run down her spine, colder than any necromantic magic. "What are you talking about?"
"Carcassonne," whispered the head. "The city of shepherds. The city guarding the pass to Tilea. Defenseless. Unaware." Mallobaude's smile widened unnaturally. "My master did not want skeletons. He wanted souls. And in Carcassonne, the portal has opened. It is not a vampire who is coming, Sir Gilles. It is a Prince. A Prince of Ruin."
Geneviève looked up toward the southeast, toward the mountains hiding the duchy of Carcassonne. And she saw it. Even at that distance, the sky wasn't grey. It was purple. Unnatural storm clouds were gathering, swirling like a great sick eye above the peaks. Flashes of chaotic energy tore the horizon. It wasn't death magic. It was Chaos Magic.
"Be'lakor laughs," gurgled Mallobaude's head, life finally fading from his eyes. "The kingdom... is finished." Then, the last red light went out. Mallobaude was truly dead.
But the silence that followed was worse than the roar of battle. Tancred arrived at a gallop, reining in his horse. "Gilles! We did it! It's over!"
Geneviève turned slowly toward the Duke. Her armor was dented, burned, covered in mud. She pointed to the purple horizon pulsing like a bruise in the sky.
"No, Duke," said the gravel voice, broken by despair. "It is not over. It hasn't even begun."
Tancred followed her gaze and paled. "By the Lady... what is happening at Carcassonne?"
"A Greater Demon," replied Geneviève, feeling the weight of the truth crushing her shoulders more than the vampire had. "They sacrificed Mousillon to summon a demonic army at our backs. We are on the wrong side of the mountains, Tancred. And between us and them... there is no one."
While the soldiers celebrated unaware among the ruins, Geneviève watched the storm growing. She had killed the monster, but she had lost the war. The true nightmare had just descended upon Bretonnia.