Late in the deep of the second night, a sharp horn blared from the direction of the southern city.
Followed immediately by screams and flames.
Viscount Webster had never slept. He donned his battle armor and rushed out of his tent, his face grim.
The area was defended by a small order of knights from the nobility, not many in number and poorly equipped. He had thought they could hold for a few days, never expecting trouble so quickly.
By the time he led his men to the scene, the entire stretch of the city wall had become a slaughterhouse.
Blood flowed down the stone steps, mingling with the remnants of armor and severed limbs.
Bodies hung upside down from the parapets, eyes still open, faces frozen in terror.
Not a single survivor.
"Kill!" Webster shouted, charging with his blade swinging.
His warblade was heavy and fierce, felling several attacking Snow Swearer warriors with a single sweep, his fighting energy blazing like fire.
