The first arrow hissed out of the trees before breath could fill a lung.
It struck a shield with a flat, cracking thud. The guard staggered, wood splintering under the force, but he grit his teeth and held the line.
Then the forest erupted.
Raiders poured from the pines in a ragged surge, their guttural cries splitting the morning air. Axes caught the dim gray light, blades flashing like shards of broken dawn. Their feet thudded against the frozen ground, a storm of chaos and hunger.
Behind them came the cultists. Not rushing, but advancing with dreadful patience. Their steps were measured, deliberate. Their curved blades gleamed faintly, and their serpent tattoos writhed in the shifting light as though alive. They carried themselves not as mere fighters, but as executioners certain of the sentence.
"Shields up!" Sofia's voice cut through the chaos, as sharp as her blade.
