Camio drew his sword, his heart pounding with a mixture of fear and adrenaline. He knew that the fate of one and all hung in the balance, and he was prepared to give everything for it.

“I wish all of us absolute victory – for Schameister, for the enactment of Justice and for yourselves! Arise, arise! To battle, to victory!”

With a rallying cry, Camio spurred his horse forward, leading his knights to the side of the battlefield. The main infantry forced was composed by the Schameister guards and was lead by their captain. They had little time to prepare, so there were few reserves. A camp had been set before crossing the frontier to Marchoss and the fire there was lit near the Tabris river, to impress upon the enemy the idea there were more troops.

The knights awaited the advance of the infantry, to clear the barricades and pave the way to a successful cavalry charge. And so the guard pushed forwards, taking arrows from towers, funnelled by the small streets – but pushing forward nonetheless, shields ready and well trained. Both armies suffered relevant casualties, but the attacking guards were spread thin, not many could be summoned in such a short notice. The knights had to come before long, so Camio and the grand master lead them forth.

As they clashed with the enemy, the duke’s mind was focused, his movements precise. He fought with strength and determination, driving back the enemy forces with skill and ferocity. The clang of steel echoed across the battlefield, a symphony of war that sent shivers down the spine of even the bravest soldiers. Camio’s sword slashed through the air as he passed, striking down foes with impulso. His horse, a massive black stallion named Vortex, galloped forward, its hooves pounding the earth with thunderous might, leading the cavalry stampede. The ground trembled beneath them, as if the very land itself recognized the gravity of the battle unfolding upon it.

“Push the line!” Camio bellowed, his voice rising above the cacophony. His knights, clad in gleaming armour, spread to the reserves of the enemy army. The enemy's arrows rained down upon them from all sides, a deadly hail that tested their courage, but the knights held firm, their spirits unyielding.

The Schameister guards, leading the charge on foot, advanced thus with determination, while the enemy line was being thinned. The captain, shouted at each new advance, his voice planting fear in the enemies’ heart. The guard moved as one, a disciplined force that refused to be deterred by the enemy’s defences. As they pushed forward, they encountered more barricades hastily erected to impede their progress. The guards hacked at the obstacles with axes and swords, splinters flying as they cleared more way for the cavalry.

The enemy, seeing the relentless advance, redoubled their efforts. From the roofs, archers continued to pepper the advancing troops with arrows, while soldiers poured out of narrow alleys to engage the Schameister guards in brutal melee. The streets of Marchoss became a blood-soaked mangrove swamp, bodies littering the ground, the wounded crying out in agony.

Camio's eyes darted across the battlefield, taking in every detail. He saw some of his men start to falter under the onslaught, their ranks thinning as they pressed on. He knew that they could not sustain this attrition for long – he did not know how large the enemy host was, but he knew the fire outside was no reserve of his own. The time for the cavalry charge was at hand. He raised his sword high, the signal for his knights to prepare for the decisive moment.

“Knights of Schameister, with me!” he roared. The grand master of the knights, an imposing figure clad in heavy armour, echoed the call, his voice booming. The knights spurred their horses into a gallop, their lances lowered as they surged forward, a massive charge towards their lord. And then, then a massive charge through every opened street.

The ground shook as the cavalry charged, a wave of steel and muscle that crashed into the enemy lines with devastating force. The initial impact was cataclysmic, the knights breaking through the enemy’s main front ranks, their momentum carrying them deep into hostile territory, and paving the way for their own guards. Camio led the charge, his sword slashing through enemies left and right. He fought like a man possessed, each swing of his blade an edict of death.

Estragon, caught off guard by the ferocity of the charge, wavered. Panic spread through their ranks. The tide of battle began to turn, the once strong enemy lines now dispersed and chaotic. Camio pressed the advantage, his knights driving deeper into the heart of the enemy force, nearing Marchoss’ castle.

Amidst the chaos, Camio's gaze locked onto a figure that stood out among the enemy ranks – the duke of Estragon, identifiable by his ornate armour. The enemy leader was rallying his troops, trying to stem the tide of the Schameister advance. Camio knew that taking him down would be a decisive blow.

“To me!” Camio shifted the cavalry charge, cutting through the enemy to reach their ultimate target. The enemy saw them coming but did not draw his own sword. Their eyes met. Estragon smiled, and a puff of smoke surrounded him. It appeared the town was filled with a purple mist, but no more battle noises could be heard.