They sprinted, and the world caught fire. A flare arrow screamed overhead, detonating a cloud of crimson smoke, followed by the thwack-thwack-thwack of crossbow bolts sewn into the planks at their feet. Lethren ducked, moving in a perfect compact line, Seren close behind. Soren barely felt the bolt that shaved his shoulder, just the numb spreading through the fabric as blood leaked in.
At the end of the bridge, Lady Lethren dove for cover behind a cleft stone. Seren dropped next to her, blade out, already scanning the higher ground for shooters.
Soren paused, pivoted back, and with one clean motion drew the emergency blade from his boot and hacked clean through the main rope at his side. The bridge bucked, lurched, and the next wave of attackers, three, maybe four, masked in gray, crashed through the planks and tumbled into the void. The screams faded fast.
On the far side, Soren rolled behind stone. Winded, bleeding, but alive.
