The pylon shattered.
A surge of crackling blue ripped across the lower field as Leon drove his blade through its core. The sigils etched on its surface flared once—a violent, dying scream of light—before the entire structure imploded. Lightning spat outwards. One bolt clipped Elaine's pauldron, spinning her, but she caught herself and staggered upright.
Leon didn't look back. He was already charging.
Around them, Hollow Guard clashed with the pylon escort—elite spellbreakers clad in mirrorsteel and spell-warded cloaks. Blades met glaives. Sparks danced. A roar echoed from the breach as more enemy troops flooded through the thinning line.
"Hold the flank!" Elaine bellowed, sweeping low with her shortblade, severing tendon and leg. "Leon, ahead!"
He saw it.
A commander—the one directing the arc-lines—stood atop the ruined sled bed. Broad-shouldered, fur-collared, helm marked with Council rune.
Leon moved faster.
