Back at the border near Aetherthorn, Mathes and his men were being pushed back—hard. The enemy was more numerous than expected. The Night Stalkers were relentless, their fangs and claws flashing in the chaos, and to make matters worse, the infamous White Fang had joined the assault. The alpha's sneak attacks alone had already cost Mathes four of his best Goldhair warriors.
"My lord, we need more help!" one of the elves shouted, his body soaked in blood—some his own, most from the beasts he'd slain. Though they had fought bravely, the sheer tenacity of the Night Stalkers had dragged the battle far longer than expected.
"I know," Mathes growled through clenched teeth, barely evading two charging Stalkers before retaliating with a sweeping wind blade that carved into their flanks.
"This is my fault… I underestimated their numbers. But what matters now is survival. Sound the retreat. Get everyone back to Aetherthorn!"
