The first volley landed short.

  Not a mistake.

  A perimeter.

  Suppression bolts struck the earth in disciplined arcs, embedding into soil with dull metallic thuds. The etched lines along their shafts flared faintly as they anchored.

  The air tightened.

  Not visibly.

  But perceptibly.

  Merrick felt it at once.

  A constriction.

  Not of flame.

  Of response.

  “They’re shaping the field,” Ilyra said.

  “Yes.”

  The second volley rose before the first finished stabilizing.

  This one landed closer.

  Not at him.

  Around him.

  Behind him.

  Cutting retreat lanes.

  Merrick moved downhill.

  Not charging.

  Breaking geometry.

  He closed distance before the third volley could complete the cage.

  The first Virex shield met his blade.

  Steel rang.

  Merrick didn’t overpower it. He slipped the angle, redirected force, stepped inside formation. His elbow drove into a throat. His knee broke stance. A shield collapsed.

  He moved again.

  Disciplined men adjusted.

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  They did not scatter.

  They tightened.

  Behind the front line, three operators drove pylons into the hillside in synchronized rhythm.

  Metal bit earth.

  Lines flared.

  The pressure doubled.

  Merrick’s runes dimmed.

  Not extinguished.

  Dimmed.

  He felt the drag.

  Ilyra stepped forward without thinking.

  “Left side.”

  A soldier had broken formation and angled uphill toward her.

  She raised her hand.

  Her magic answered—but unevenly. The suppression field distorted her binding, snapping roots upward in broken angles. One caught the man’s ankle.

  It slowed him.

  It did not stop him.

  He tore free and kept coming.

  Merrick pivoted to intercept—but the Virex line anticipated the movement.

  Two shield-bearers crashed into him at once.

  Not wildly.

  Methodically.

  Their goal wasn’t to win.

  It was to stall.

  Steel moved before Ilyra finished turning.

  The blade caught cloth and skin along her ribs.

  She stumbled.

  Merrick felt the shift.

  Something inside him surged.

  Unbinding pressed forward—clean, immediate, absolute.

  He could end it.

  The formation.

  The field.

  The valley.

  A thin crack of white light crawled along the edge of his blade—

  He forced it down.

  Bound.

  He drove his shoulder forward instead of releasing it, breaking the shield lock through leverage rather than force. His blade cut through the soldier threatening Ilyra before the second strike could fall.

  He reached her.

  “Move.”

  No softness.

  No panic.

  She moved.

  The pylons finished activating.

  The valley changed.

  The suppression field locked.

  Merrick’s runes went dark.

  Not dim.

  Dark.

  The air felt heavy.

  Flame answered sluggishly when he called it.

  Controlled.

  But weakened.

  The Virex officer stepped through the line.

  “Stand down,” he said. “This ends now.”

  Merrick didn’t answer.

  He studied the field.

  Three pylons active.

  Two incomplete.

  The geometry was tight.

  Not perfect.

  Destruction magic answered beneath the soil.

  A fracture line split the hillside between two pylons.

  The ground sagged.

  Not a landslide.

  Enough.

  The field flickered.

  Pressure eased.

  Merrick drove heat downward—not at men—but at earth. Fire tunneled through soil, collapsing anchor depth beneath the central pylon.

  Metal tore sideways.

  The suppression lattice fractured.

  Not broken.

  Weakened.

  That was enough.

  He caught Ilyra’s arm and pulled her uphill.

  The Virex line advanced.

  Not chaotic.

  Not enraged.

  Pressing.

  Executing.

  Merrick reached the ridgeline and turned once more.

  The officer below watched steadily.

  Measuring.

  Not angry.

  Assessing.

  Merrick held his gaze.

  Bound.

  Still Bound.

  Then he stepped backward over the ridge and vanished into higher ground.

  The Virex horn sounded—short and controlled.

  The line held position.

  They did not pursue blindly.

  They did not need to.

  Ilyra faltered once as they climbed.

  Merrick steadied her without comment.

  They didn’t stop until the hills broke into uneven stone and fractured cover.

  Only then did Merrick turn to her.

  “Show me.”

  “It’s shallow.”

  “Show me.”

  She moved her hand.

  Blood marked fabric along her ribs.

  Not fatal.

  Not minor.

  Real.

  “They forced you back,” she said quietly.

  “Yes.”

  “You didn’t Unbind.”

  “No.”

  She met his eyes.

  “They believe you won’t.”

  “They’re wrong.”