Hezor drives his men back through the smoke-choked streets, every heartbeat a struggle against panic. Behind them, the roars of monsters echo, claws scraping stone, wings beating the air. The inner wall looms ahead—a last refuge, a last chance.
But then—shadows leap across their path. A dozen figures land before the retreating soldiers, steel gleaming, their cloaks marked in crimson. At their head stands Rirdon, his eyes burning like live coals.
Hezor freezes. "Rirdon…?" His breath catches; disbelief is written across his face. "By the gods—you—"
Rirdon raises his blade, the curved edge gleaming with fresh blood. His voice cuts like iron.
"You will not go anywhere."
The soldiers falter behind Hezor, staring wide-eyed at men they once called allies.
"Rirdon!" Hezor steps forward, sword half-raised but not yet swinging. "What are you doing?! Fight with us, help us defend!"
