It was then.
Salma's ear feathers twitched. It wasn't a sound he heard. The flow of the wind hadn't changed, but something was definitely approaching.
From the path leading to the heart of the encampment—a dirt trail hardened by countless footsteps—a flicker of torchlight spread an extra layer, and the chaotic noises began to converge in one direction. It was still distant. Yet the presence of whatever was coming from the end of that path tugged at Salma's senses.
He turned his head.
Filling one side of his vision was a form. A bulk larger than a human's, the low grating of heavy metal clashing together, and the weight pressing down on the earth with each step. Orcs.
But not ordinary orcs. Thick metal plates reinforced their torsos and limbs without a single gap, and beneath their helmets jutted jagged tusks and ashen skin.
The plate armor wasn't pristine; scratches and dents marred it everywhere, clear signs it had seen multiple battlefields.
In their hands were massive axes, and on the other side, shields layered with metal and leather. Gear chosen for function over flair—heavy and crude, but all the more menacing for it.
'Heavy-armored orcs, huh.'
Salma's eyes narrowed.
'This is unexpected.'
The heavy-armored orcs were charging in formation to join the fray. Their numbers weren't great—just a handful at most—but their movements were different. Unlike the other orcs rushing in disorder, they ran in step, maintaining ranks, shields positioned at even intervals as they advanced without breaking line. The precision of trained soldiers.
Salma shifted his gaze to survey the surroundings once more. The battle still seemed to be going smoothly. The winged legion was overwhelming the orcs, with barely any noticeable losses.
But that very smoothness gnawed at him. The orcs flailed in confusion, taking one-sided blows from the winged legion, screams erupting everywhere. Flames leaped up, blood splattered.
And yet, things were flowing too easily.
'Too easy.'
Salma's mind raced.
'This... something's off. Their defenses can't be this lax. A massive army on the move, and security this sloppy? Sentries are scarce, no alert system, reactions slow. Even for orcs... it's almost like...'
"Nerum, Bejede, Sebire."
Salma called out loudly to his lieutenants. They folded their wings and approached him. All three still wore the flush of battle on their faces, spears smeared with blood, breaths ragged.
"Take out those heavy-armored ones. Make it quick."
Salma pointed at the heavy-armored orcs. They had already reached the encampment's outskirts, shields raised, forming up.
The three nodded at Salma's command and took to the air.
Nerum reached the battlefield first. He looked down at the formation of heavy-armored orcs below, then tucked his body into a steep dive, pushing his speed to the limit. Wind sliced sharply past his eyes, his cloak pressed flat against him by the air.
Only then did the heavy-armored orcs spot him. Shields snapped up in unison, axes raised belatedly. But it was too late. Nerum didn't aim for the shields.
Just six cubits (3 meters) from the orc, he twisted his body into a sharp turn. Unfurling his wings, he spun, his spur-blades whirling horizontally.
Shiiing—
A sharp metallic whine rang out. The heavy-armored orc's thigh plate tore open in a clean line, the blade digging deep into flesh and muscle beneath.
In an instant, the leg buckled. Red blood gushed from the armor's seams, the orc letting out a short scream as it dropped to one knee. The axe slipped from its hand, the shield tilting out of balance.
Nerum flared his wings once more to climb. Twisting in mid-air, he spun a full circle to gain altitude.
His right wing glowed. Manifestation. Blue light seeped between the feathers, taking shape.
A hand formed, gripping a spear, its sharp tip aimed downward.
As he fell, he channeled more mana into the ethereal hand, adding force, and hurled the spear at the orc staring up at him.
The spear cleaved the air, tracing a flawless straight line. It pierced the kneeling orc's throat.
Slipping through the helmet's gap, the tip burst out the back of the neck. The orc's body jerked backward and collapsed, the heavy armor thudding dully against the ground. Thick orc blood seeped slowly into the dirt.
Bejede took on two heavy-armored orcs at once. He flew low, gliding just a handspan above the ground.
The first orc swung its axe. The arc was wide and heavy, but the motion was sluggish. Bejede tilted his body obliquely to evade, the blade grazing perilously close over his head. The gust ruffled his feathers for a split second.
In that moment, his left leg struck. The spur-blade flashed, stabbing into the joint seam of the orc's leg armor—the weakest point where plates overlapped.
The blade sank deep, severing tendons, and the orc screamed as it lost balance, pitching forward. A dull thud followed as its face slammed into the dirt.
Bejede was already closing on the second orc. It hastily raised its shield, but Bejede vaulted over it, soaring above the orc's head. Twisting mid-turn, he drove his blade into the back of the orc's knee.
The spur-blade pierced the armor gap. The feel of tearing flesh and snapping tendons transmitted up his leg. The orc crumpled backward, losing shield and axe as it hit the ground.
Bejede climbed immediately. Blue light shimmered in the air behind him, a hand manifesting. In its grasp appeared two throwing daggers—short and razor-sharp.
Balancing with a flap of his wings, he poured power into the manifested hand and flung the daggers downward.
The two blades struck true, embedding in the fallen orcs' napes. Through the narrow gaps between helmets and armor. The daggers sank deep, the orcs convulsing before going still. Blood trickled down the edges.
Sebire was the quietest. He glided silently, slipping between the heavy-armored orcs.
One orc sensed him too late, starting to turn, but Sebire's spur-blade had already sliced deep into the back of its ankle. The tendon snapped, and the orc toppled backward, balance shattered. Its back hit the ground first, the heavy armor booming loudly against the earth.
Sebire landed instantly. As his feet touched down, he raised the long spear already gripped in his manifested hand.
At the same time, blue light flickered in the air behind him, another hand manifesting—far larger than his own body. It seized the spear shaft alongside his.
Channeling force into that massive hand, Sebire thrust downward. The added pressure drove the tip toward the orc's helmet, straight at the eye. Metal twisted and parted with a screech, followed by the dull thunk of piercing flesh.
The orc's body shuddered violently once, then went limp. The manifested hand yanked the spear free in one pull, and Sebire used the recoil to launch himself back into the air.
It had all happened in a blink. More than half the heavy-armored orcs lay felled by the following winged legion's attacks, the rest scattering in disarray, formation broken. Some retreated, others turned to flee outright.
Terror consumed them.
But Salma wasn't watching them.
His gaze remained fixed on the encampment's core. The heart of the massive orc camp. That place, still eerily quiet. Even with the heavy-armored orcs emerging, there was no movement. The guards held their posts without joining the fight. No reinforcements sent. As if they were simply observing everything.
'Something's wrong.'
Salma rose higher, scanning the crimson-glowing encampment from above.
'Even with their heavy armor showing up, no more orcs are moving. No commander in sight, no reserves. This is...'
The unease wouldn't fade. It thickened instead. His chest tightened slowly, a chill creeping down his spine.
He was missing something, without a doubt. Something out of sight, but undeniably there.
His eyes lingered on the heavy-armored orcs, and realization flashed. They were a decoy, thrown out to draw attention.
Salma's senses were already turning elsewhere. The real threat lurked in the unseen.
On the battlefield, you didn't ignore instincts like these. Salma had learned that through countless fights. Those who brushed off doubts fell first; survivors clung to that discomfort.
'We need to pull back.'
Salma decided.
"Pull back, Nerum!"
Salma shouted.
Nerum turned to look at Salma. The battle was going well, losses minimal. His brow furrowed briefly at the order that clashed with the situation. Why withdraw now? But he didn't voice the question. Trust in Salma overrode it. He nodded soon after, powering his wings to fly toward Bejede and Sebire.
"Withdraw! Everyone, ascend!"
Nerum's voice echoed over the encampment. Loud, clear. The command spread.
The Yakra Winged Legion moved. They delivered final strikes and began rising. Lifting off the ground, they took to the air. Wings unfurled in unison, red cloaks fluttering in the wind.
That was the moment.
Suddenly, countless black lines overlaid the moonlit night sky. It wasn't clouds blocking the moon.
Something streaked across the upper air, filling the heavens in an instant. Salma looked up. And saw.
Arrows.
Lines crisscrossing the night sky multiplied all at once.
Black streaks descended without deviation, densely packing the sky.
As the arrowheads moved, moonlight fractured, and the campfires below glinted briefly off the metal tips. The light flashed for a second, then vanished back into darkness.
The arrows didn't scatter. They spread like a single sheet, raining down as a black deluge over the encampment.
'That's...'
Salma's eyes widened.
"Everyone, evade!"
Salma yelled.
But it was too late.
The arrows engulfed the Yakra Winged Legion.
Black lines unleashed from above, their overlapping paths carving through the night as they plummeted.
Arrows rained on winged legion and orcs alike.
Directions varied, but the flow was one, arrivals nearly simultaneous. No time to dodge. The arrows weren't seeking targets—they blanketed the entire encampment.
Incoming arrows pierced the wings of the airborne Yakra legionnaires.
Feathers tore, blood spurted. The crack of wing bones shattering echoed. A legionnaire lost balance, screaming as he fell. He tried to spread his wings, but one was ruined. Control impossible.
Many legionnaires, arrows lodged in their wings, flailed helplessly in mid-air, bodies twisting as strength ebbed, before crashing to the ground.
Amid the falling arrow storm, one legionnaire's struggle caught the eye. An arrow pierced the shoulder of a soldier reacting to Salma's voice, trying to rise. The tip punched through armor, shattering bone, drawing a scream from his beak. With desperate effort, he flapped one-handed, beating his wings frantically to climb, but balance was already gone. Then another arrow buried in his back, and he could hold no longer, plummeting limply downward.
Orcs on the ground fell too. Arrows pierced backs, heads, arms in succession, the thuds of impacts the only sound.
Even heavy-armored orcs couldn't withstand the barrage. They raised shields, but arrows clanged off, some punching through to embed in arms and torsos.
One orc held his shield high, but an arrow grazed the edge and lodged in his throat. Clutching his neck, he toppled.
Bejede twisted into a sharp turn to dodge. Folding and unfurling his wings, he changed direction. Two arrows whistled past where he'd been.
But the third he couldn't avoid. It grazed his thigh. Flesh ripped, blood flowed. Not fatal, but pain shot up his leg.
Bejede's body wobbled in mid-air for a split second.
He twisted to snap the shaft with his beak. Leaving the head in his thigh, he flew upward regardless.
Sebire wasn't so lucky.
One arrow pierced his left wing. Feathers shredded, red blood streamed. The sensation of fracturing wing bone spread through him. He swallowed a scream, forcing his wings to beat on. Agony wrapped his body, but he couldn't stop.
Stop, and you fall. Fall, and you die.
Sebire repeated the refrain in his head.
Another arrow came.
This time, his back.
It punched through the armor, tearing flesh, piercing a lung. The impact buckled him forward.
His wings drooped, strength gone, beats halting. He tried to look ahead.
That's when he saw Nerum. Watching from afar.
Sebire opened his beak to say something. But blood welled in his throat. Thick fluid blocked his airway, no words emerging. Only blood-tinged breath leaked from his beak's tip.
He began to fall.
Wings flapped, but he couldn't rise. Wind scattered the streaming blood, the ground rushing up. The last thing in Sebire's eyes was the night sky. Starless, dark. And the countless arrows streaking across it.
He hit the ground.
Amid the orcs, among the arrow-riddled corpses.
His red cloak settled slowly over his body.
"Sebireeee!"
Nerum screamed, voice raw as if torn.
But there was no answer from Sebire.
Salma climbed higher. He had to escape arrow range. He checked around. The legion followed, but their numbers were down. Many red cloaks lay still, unable to rise.
'Where did the arrows come from?'
Salma's mind spun.
'They flew from the darkness. Not from inside the camp. Shot upward from below, targeting the ascending legion... two directions. The woods? Treetops? But from that height, with that accuracy...'
He looked down at the encampment. Chaos reigned. Orcs littered the ground, campfires toppled, flames spreading. Screams and groans mingled.
'It was planned.'
Salma realized.
'A trap from the start. They made their defenses look weak to lure us in. Didn't care about sacrificing orcs. Hell, maybe the orcs were bait too. Just to draw us out.'
Then the wind shifted.
A powerful gust brushed over Salma's head.
Something massive was descending from above. A shadow filling his vision. Air compressed, breath stifled. Ears rang.
Salma looked up.
Turning, he stared at the black silhouette bearing down on him.
Blotting out the two moons' light, swallowing the stars, enveloping the entire night sky.
Something enormous was coming down.