"Now, Herios!" Medea commanded, pointing her glowing staff at the monster's eye. "The Earth holds him! Show this shadow the strength of a Soul that refuses to be unwritten!"
Herios' eyes turned solemn as he stood at the vanguard, his golden aura resonating with the sudden, violent surge of human willpower.
But as he prepared to give the order to charge, he felt a presence behind him—a steady, familiar weight of loyalty that felt as solid as a mountain.
At that moment, the air over the ruined mortal realm, once heavy with the suffocating scent of blood and the grey rot of the Outer Ones, was suddenly pierced by a sound that had not been heard in ten thousand years.
It was the synchronized clash of bronze and iron against shields—the rhythmic heartbeat of a nation that had once looked into the eyes of the gods and refused to blink.
Herios turned, and his breath caught in his throat.
