The march had barely begun when the fissures split wide, vomiting wraiths of shadow, their claws screeching against stone like knives dragged across bone. The Hollow Order had not waited—they had been waiting.
Wolves broke formation first, fur bristling, fangs snapping as they tore into the first wave. The Ironsworn shifted seamlessly, spears locking into a living wall of iron, their oaths chanted with every thrust:
"Velmorr shael drael! Iron binds, shadow breaks!"
Above, dragons wheeled in formation, scales glinting against the bleeding sky, fire raining down in sheets. Kaelthys's roar cracked the night:
"Coroneth drael! Burn unmake!"
The battlefield shuddered under their fury.
Damon fought at the center, the Scar blazing black fire across his arm, his claws cleaving through wraithflesh that screamed like tearing parchment. But with every strike, the Scar burned hotter, hungrier. It drank shadow as if starved.
