The warlock-engineer stood at the rear of the Phalanx, surrounded by a rotating shield of hexed plates. He wasn’t fighting. He was observing . Recording. Ariane realized with cold horror that this wasn’t a battle—it was a field test. He was learning how the Paladin fought.
She threw Malachar into the burning wreckage of his own command platform and turned the Panzer Paladin toward the rising sun. The suit’s joints seized. Its visor flickered. Step by grinding step, it walked until it could walk no more.
Ariane unlatched the cockpit hatch and climbed out onto the Paladin’s shoulder pauldron. The air smelled of smoke, ozone, and something fragile—grass.
"Forty-five seconds," Flint said softly.
She hit Malachar’s shield at the apex of its rotation cycle. The hex plates screamed, fractured, and died. Her gauntlet punched through his chest console and lifted him off the ground.
