The Tragic Symphony — 06:18 AM

  The gates of Saint-Loup groaned open.

  A trumpeter blew—the note cracked, screamed.

  English knights spilled from the smoke. Talbot rode at their head, dragging chaos into order.

  Thump-thump. Thump-thump.

  "He's coming for the King!"

  The French infantry's "Crash-Course" discipline shattered. Men stumbled. Spears lowered. A gap opened—

  The Banner That Would Not Break

  Jeanne saw the line collapsing. For a heartbeat, she froze.

  Lord… they will break. He will reach the King.

  Then she spurred forward, slammed her banner into the mud like an anchor.

  "HOLD! In God’s name—HOLD THE LINE!"

  Men flinched. Not from fear—from obedience.

  "LOOK AT ME! LOOK AT THE BANNER! GOD WALKS WITH US!"

  The gap closed.

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  Talbot saw it—too late. He was already inside the funnel she sealed. No turning back.

  The Crisis — 06:20 AM

  Talbot smashed through the tightening ranks.

  "Sire! He’s coming straight for ye!" bellowed Patrick Ogilvy, Captain of the Scots Guard. "Alba gu bràth!"

  Forty Scots threw their bodies into the line, bracing the peasants.

  Napoleon’s eyes remained fixed on Talbot.

  "He sees what I want him to see."

  Ogilvy didn’t look left—toward the smoke-choked flank where Gamaches and the Sword in the Scabbard waited like a cocked spear.

  Talbot thundered closer.

  Forty yards. Thirty. Twenty.

  "I HAVE YOU!" Talbot roared.

  Napoleon raised his hand.

  Ogilvy swallowed.

  "NOW."

  The Royal Standard dipped—twice.

  For a heartbeat—silence.

  Then—the world answered.

  A metallic roar from the flank. Steel hooves. Sunlit armor. Fifty heavy cavalry erupting from smoke.

  "MONTJOIE! SAINT DENIS!"

  Gamaches’ line hit the exhausted English knights like a divine hammer.

  Gamaches’ destrier—a 1,000-pound monster—drove straight into Talbot’s exhausted horse. The collision was catastrophic. Talbot’s mount folded inward with a crack like breaking timber.

  The English commander was hurled into the air, crashing into the mud so hard the ground itself seemed to recoil.

  Gamaches threw himself off his horse while it was still moving. He landed in a roll, boots skidding through blood-wet soil.

  Talbot tried to stand. His leg buckled.

  Gamaches slammed him down with a mailed forearm across the chest, pinning him like a predator pinning a stag.

  Talbot wheezed, armor bending under Gamaches’ weight. He looked up. Not at the sword killing him, but past Gamaches—at the small figure in the grey coat sitting perfectly still amidst the carnage.

  "Not... a knight..." Talbot gasped, blood bubbling from his lips. "A... monster."

  Gamaches raised his dagger to finish it.

  "Glasdale..." Talbot choked out, a cruel smile touching his dying face. "Glasdale... is... here..."

  Gamaches froze. For the first time, he heard it.

  The distant thunder of hooves.

  Not French. English.