They surged forward stronger than they had ever been, fiercer than they had ever been. Men fell before them, separated into chaff and grain by the rhythmic threshing of their blades.
The geography of the field had become an impossible knot. The left wing had been smashed into the center until they collided at an isometric angle with the reserve cavalry that still tried to ride on; the Legions, who had been pushed to the very brink of the abyss, were now cutting wide, crimson swaths through the enemy as if they hadn't been drowning in a red slaughter for hours.
Cohesive lines were a memory. The initial order the Prince had fought so hard to maintain was discarded in favor of pure, unadulterated brutality, a chaotic melee that favored the Yarzat and Kakunian hosts. Though they were bloodied and bone-weary, they were animated by a fierce, serrated spirit, propped up by the leadership of men who had crossed the threshold of sanity.
