The sound of battle began to die.

Fanilly lowered her blade at her side. It was stained black from the curse abominations and the hounds, and crimson from the blood of the Golden Boars.

The clash had come to its end, at least mostly.

Fanilly gulped in air, slowly becoming aware of the bumps and bruises she'd sustained over the course of battle. Even though she was fully armored, it didn't make her entirely impervious to such things. But it did prevent her from taking more serious damage in many cases, and that meant that anything she had sustained could wait. After all, some minor throbbing in her limbs was nothing compared to what others could be suffering.

"Attend anyone who has been wounded," she called to the healers, her breathing still heavy, "That includes any seriously injured prisoners. They should at least live to stand trial."

But, naturally, the knights would come first if anyone had been hurt badly enough.

Fanilly stepped forward, her eyes travelling across the battlefield and falling upon Sir Fionn, Dame Amy, and the Boar Commander. But it didn't look like the outcome of a winning duel in the least...

"Ah... Clarice, come here, now!"

Their enemy was clearly using curses, so whatever was happening, then maybe...!

"Hey?! Don't just order me around, you're not my-"

There wasn't any time to just wait for her to complain, the Knight-Captain grabbing the curse mage by the wrist and practically dragging her along behind her.

The Boar Commander was in a terrible state, blood dribbling from his mouth and nose, even from the corners of his eyes. When he tried to speak, more flooded from his throat.

"H... have you been able to get anything out of him?" Fanilly asked, hesitatingly, as she stood by the man. His armor was entirely undamaged. It was easy enough to put together that something had gone terribly wrong.

"Hmph," complained Clarice, "I'm not just a toy you can simply drag about, you know! I killed dozens of those ugly piggies, at least you can-"

She cut herself off when she realized what everyone was looking at.

"... Tch, that's a powerful curse," she commented, "A really nasty one, too, but for it to be this effective when the Caster isn't around it has to be somewhere on him."

She stepped forward, peering over the Boar Commander's Armor. He could no longer speak, but when he realized what Amy was doing-

A pale face. No, perhaps a mask? A blank white mask, with a single eye inscribed upon it. Wide, staring. There were no visible eyeholes or any other features. Indeed, it was surrounded in nothing but an inky blackness.

And then Amy's mental vision was filled with red.

The Commander gave one last gasp as blood poured from his nose and mouth.

He was gone.

"... Too late," Clarice said with a scowl, "It was on the back of his armor, a curse attacking his insides and breaking them down. Whoever did it probably planted it there in secret. Hmph. I would have done it with my fetch, that's a lot more charming."

Questions about what Clarice thought of as charming aside, Fanilly's shoulders slumped for a moment before she turned towards the half-demon.

"Dame Amy, the healers will be able to attend to you soon," she began, concern on her features when she noticed the mage's injured state, "But first, did you see anything recognizable?"

It was their best chance at locating a culprit.

[hr]

The final curse abomination slumped. The last, fiendish burst of energy the converging curses had given it was at its end.

But as they escaped from its frame, its body was clearly unable to handle the sheer outpouring of malignancy. Unlike the other abominations, it was breaking down, liquifying into a putrid, black, tarry substance, twisted bones left behind.

[hr]

Veilena scowled. Not only had she been called for, but the battle was over, and yet the knights forming her defensive line were not allowing her to leave.

"The Boars have either surrendered or died," the Cazt heir complained with a wave of her hand, "My Knight is in need of assistance. At the very least, could one of you do it?"

She gestured to the battlefield.

Haelstadt, their black armor drenched in the blood of dozens upon dozens of enemy mercenaries, had carefully placed their sword aside and was now on their hands and knees, reaching out.

They were trying to guide themselves back to their head. Unfortunately, said head was now face-down, likely having been kicked at some point during the fight, making the ordeal a considerable and surreal challenge.

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