The ridge trembled beneath the thunder of hooves.
Northern cavalry poured down the slopes like a relentless wave of iron and fury, lances leveled, banners snapping in the mist, eyes ablaze with the certainty of slaughter. The sound struck the southern lines like a battering ram against stone—the shrill of horns, the metallic ring of weapons, the collective roar of men and horses driven by instinct and discipline alike.
Ryon tightened his grip on his sword, feeling the pulse of the system thrumming violently in his veins. "Now the hollow feeds," it whispered, cold and insistent. "Spill, bind, dominate."
He did not answer, only tightened his jaw, scanning the front. The southern host was ready—shield walls locked, spears bristling, mages raised with glowing sigils. Every eye strained through the mist, trying to read the approaching tide of steel.
