The battle turned in an instant.
With the three advanced warriors dead, every pair of eyes on the field swung toward Garan and the twins. The roaring clashes that had filled the canyon only moments earlier faded into something quieter, replaced by the heavy, measured footsteps of more than a thousand undead closing in from every side. The circle around the three remaining mages tightened steadily until every possible escape route vanished beneath an ocean of skeletal figures carrying rusted weapons and burning soul flames.
Garan's face grew more and more unpleasant.
All the confidence he had carried into the fight was gone. He understood exactly where he stood. Even with magical energy still left in his body and the Iron Book in his hand, escaping through more than a thousand undead while Harold, Mirella, the black mages, and the others surrounded him was no longer something confidence alone could achieve.
