Allen had been driven into a corner by Catherine's oath and the phylactery.

The lich was gravely wounded. His phylactery had been stolen. They had the assistance of a legendary powerhouse, the elven queen herself. If they still refused to march, he would be branded a coward for life. Worse, he might be dragged before the Tribunal. In Lyon, cowardice in the face of battle warranted no less than ten years' imprisonment.

And yet, would that terrifying lich truly commit such a blunder? How could something as vital as a phylactery possibly be stolen?

Wait. The phylactery...

Allen suddenly recalled something from the journey home from Alkhemia. His father had been escorting an entire carriage filled to the brim with confiscated items. Allen distinctly remembered him muttering under his breath, "This lich is absurd. How could he possibly have so many phylacteries?!"

At the time, Allen had been under accusation himself and dared not ask questions. He had assumed he misheard.

But thinking back now... Surely the entire carriage hadn't been filled with phylacteries?

He could not help asking, "Is this phylactery the real thing?"

The question made Catherine's heart skip violently.

From the moment she entered the city, her pulse had been racing. Even her voice trembled.

She was no stranger to deception, but before, Ambrose had always been at her side, ready to smooth over any slip at a critical moment.

Now she was alone, forced to rely entirely on her acting. Worse, she was in her original identity. She couldn't even embellish with her usual imagination. It was far more difficult than she had expected.

The Blur spell did more than veil her overwhelming beauty. It also concealed her flushed face.

Fortunately, Ambrose had constructed a lie so "truthful" that even the gods themselves could not refute it.

Amid the tension, Catherine felt an undercurrent of exhilaration. Outsmarting one's enemy was far more thrilling than crushing them with brute force.

"He can even manipulate the gods. He's terrifyingly brilliant..." she murmured inwardly.

Hearing Allen's suspicion, her anxiety spiked again. Before she could answer, however, Simon jumped in. He had had enough of this charade.

"Allen Watson," the paladin snapped, "you keep searching for excuses. Are you afraid? If so, then hand over your command. Stay in the city if you must."

Allen's fists clenched. He could think of no further argument to the contrary. Even he wasn't sure any longer whether what he felt was caution or fear. All he knew was that Ambrose was his nightmare, an inescapable shadow.

He glanced at the other Lyon soldiers. There was mockery or disdain on every face. In that instant, he understood he had no other choice.

Even if he refused to march, they would unite to strip him of command.

"Very well," Allen said at last. "I transfer command to you, Simon. But I request that half the forces remain to guard the city. I will accompany the expedition."

Among those present, Simon was the highest-born and most respected after Allen himself. If Allen marched, only Simon could effectively control Sandshadow. Allen still feared falling into Ambrose's scheme; leaving part of the force behind would at least secure the city.

Simon's reply was iron. "You will not steal my glory."

In the eyes of many, Allen had already become a laughingstock. Simon had no intention of listening to him. A gravely wounded lich who had lost his phylactery—this was a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity.

How many paladins could claim to have slain a legendary undead before ascending to a legend themselves?

Simon had "personally witnessed" Ambrose's grievous state. He would not let anyone claim that honor.

"Sandshadow City is what matters!" Allen gritted out. "There are tens of thousands of civilians here!"

"As long as we kill the lich, Sandshadow will be safe," Simon shot back. "If you insist on staying, stay alone. I believe the others will stand with me."

No paladin could resist such temptation. They were heroes returning in triumph. Now, another brilliant line could be added to their records.

As the argument escalated, Catherine interjected gently. "I have heard that the Lyon Empire can transform the faith of its people into tangible power. Sandshadow is indeed important, so why not let its people defend it? If every citizen is mobilized, the gathered strength should be enough to withstand any unforeseen event."

Simon seized upon her words. "Exactly. The holy light arrays can absorb the faith of the populace. As long as they pray devoutly, the magic formation can be fueled endlessly. Even a legendary lich won't be able to breach it. We need only one night. Let them endure until we return."

The conversion of faith was Lyon's greatest weapon, enabling it to turn devotion to the Lord of Dawn into real holy power. Every Lyon city possessed such a formation.

For the faithless, however, the conversion would consume their lifespan instead of their faith. Such had been the case with Geronimo's peasants: memorizing scripture for days did not make them truly devout.

But Lyon had already taken over Sandshadow for some time. Many settlers had migrated from Lyon's heartland, and there were true believers in abundance. Their combined faith could surely sustain the defenses for one night.

"Simon, don't you think this is excessive?!" Allen demanded, struggling to restrain his anger.

These men's return should have been cause for relief. But how had the situation suddenly become a reckless gamble with the fate of the entire city on the line?

"Silence, Allen Watson, you coward," Simon spat. "We do not answer to you. I leave now with my paladin brothers to slay the lich. Whether you empower the magic array with civilians or not is your affair."

With that, Simon turned and strode away. His followers rushed to join him, leaving Allen no dignity.

Allen considered stopping them, but when he looked at the soldiers remaining beside him, their eyes flicked away. None dared meet his gaze.

His authority over Sandshadow had been too newly established. He had not had time to earn their loyalty.

Catherine followed Simon's group out of the city, exhaling in relief. "That lich planned for everything," she thought. "No wonder he acted so desperately wounded in our performance. He knew they would quarrel."

While "rescuing" Simon and the others, she and Ambrose had staged a breathtaking spectacle. A battle raged from sand to sky. In the end, Ambrose "escaped with grievous injuries," and she herself appeared "severely wounded," but not before "stealing" his phylactery.

It had been a clash between legends. Simon and his men could not discern truth from falsehood, only that a single stray blow would have killed them outright.

Because Ambrose's performance had been so convincing—he had gone as far as to scatter his bones every which way—Simon believed absolutely in the opportunity.

And thus Allen and Simon had clashed exactly as Ambrose intended, enabling Catherine to complete another of his objectives: to turn the entire city into a militia.

"For money, that lich truly will do anything," she murmured.

When Ambrose had negotiated with the Silvermoon Knight, militiamen counted at one thousand gold apiece; ordinary civilians did not. But once civilians joined the city's defense, they would be considered militia.

At that point, Ambrose could point to the city's entire population and settle accounts accordingly.

And Sandshadow's population was in the tens of thousands.

The Silvermoon Knight's expression would surely be... colorful.

Catherine smiled faintly. Though Lyon and the elves were nominal allies, she felt an inexplicable thrill, perhaps because she herself had played an important part in this scheme.

Simon's decisiveness left Allen no alternative. He could not risk Sandshadow's fall. Warning horns sounded. Citizens were roused from their homes, summoned to pray to the Lord of Dawn and replace the departing paladins' role.

Though some grumbled, most complied, kneeling at altars throughout the city.

Holy light flared brilliantly. Dozens of paladins led nearly all remaining soldiers out of the gates, chasing the "wounded lich."

Catherine left with them, but before departing, she made several quiet circuits through the city, leaving behind small "gifts."

Allen remained in Sandshadow.

They could call him a coward if they so wished. The unease in his heart was only growing stronger. Staying within the city felt like the only correct choice.

As he watched the army disappear into the desert, a dark thought flickered across his mind. If they were to suffer a heavy defeat against that lich, they'd know who was right in the end.

The thought horrified him. He struck himself hard across the face.

How could a paladin harbor such darkness? They were his own countrymen.

"That lich is too terrifying," Allen whispered. "Even without seeing him, merely thinking of him is corrupting me."

He began reciting scripture under his breath, striving to purge the shadow from his heart.

Time ticked and tocked. No word came from the expedition.

Allen's anxiety deepened. Had the lich fled? All he hoped for was for them to return at all, empty-handed or not.

He waited until the onset of dawn.

At the edge of the desert, a small golden speck appeared. It grew larger and larger.

When Allen finally discerned its shape, his last fragile thread of hope snapped.

A massive golden throne floated across the sands. Upon it sat the dreadful lich, raising a hand in greeting.

"Of course... It was all a trap. All of it!"

Allen pounded the battlements until his fists split and bled. The pain in his hands could not rival the fury in his heart.

Over a hundred paladins, two thousand soldiers, all likely doomed.

Yet there was a bitter solace—at least he had remained. At least he had summoned the entire city to prayer, reinforcing the holy light arrays with their combined faith. That power could surely hold the lich at bay for several days.

By then, reinforcements from the capital would arrive... wouldn't they?

Come to think of it, nearly a full day had passed since his request for aid. Why had no reply come?

As Allen struggled to compose a plan, screams suddenly erupted from within the city.

He spun around. Within Sandshadow, more than a dozen brilliant beams of arcane light burst skyward, energy powerful enough to disrupt the flawless operation of the arrays.

The golden throne teleported above the city the instant the formation faltered.

Darkness crashed down. Allen's vision went black as a suffocating shadow engulfed him.

The entire city fell into pitch darkness. Devout prayers were interrupted. Panic erupted. Shrill screams pierced the air.

Allen collapsed onto the ground.

"It's over... Sandshadow is doomed!"