They came from the East.

The first glimmers of dawn had only just begun to seep through the mist, casting a pale light over the makeshift barricades. Built hurriedly by the Gnolls, the barrier was rough but strong, a defense line of thick logs and stones hauled together over the course of a single, sleepless night. Leon could feel the raw tension in the air, thick as the fog itself.

He gripped the strange, long palm-blades Khazarg had given him for training, feeling the cool metal bite into his palms. Though he had his own skill, [Bladed Hands], there was something reassuring about holding real weapons here, tangible steel that felt like an anchor in the chaos around him. The weight steadied his breath as he took in the pandemonium. He wasn’t here to hide.

Leon wore a simple white leather armor, like many of the Gnolls around him, mass-crafted by the tailors and seamstresses of the tribe.

Every nerve in his body screamed at him to flee, to put as much distance as he could between himself and the clash ahead, but the cold bite of the metal reminded him of the reason he had come this far. This was his first real battle, and every fiber of him knew it could be his last. Gripping the blades even tighter, he prepared himself.

Barg stood beside Leon, gripping two butcher's blades in his hands, his butcher's belt strapped tightly around his waist. Varra was also at his side, her bow in her hands, her presence steadying him.

Further ahead, Khazarg positioned himself alongside Kazarai and Kraka. He was bare-chested, gripping his white twin axes tightly in his paws, while Kraka donned black leather armor adorned with blue spirals, the symbol of the Er’Dovaz. In contrast, Kazarai only wore his grey shaman’s robe, leaning on his sturdy staff.

Out of the mist, they came like an unstoppable tide—the Windcloaks. They filled the field by the thousands, draped in mismatched furs and battered leather armor. Strips of fabric in every color hung from their clothes and weapons, fluttering in the chilling breeze.

Gnolls of all sizes and builds, from hulking giants hefting wicked blades to lean archers with sharp, predatory eyes, arrows already nocked.

They moved with a unity that was haunting, a mass of colors and fur, fangs glinting in the thin morning light. An organized horde.

Out from the chaotic ranks of the Windcloaks stepped Narg the Viper, a figure not of towering bulk but of taut, deadly elegance. Lean and wiry, he seemed almost coiled as he moved, a dark promise of violence in every calculated step. His fur, a pale blond that caught the dawn light in ghostly hues, was matted and scarred.

His dark yellow eyes, cold as a predator’s in the final moments before a kill, swept over the Er’Dovaz with unsettling precision. Across his muzzle stretched a ragged scar, twisting his features into a perpetual snarl, as though fate itself had marked him for menace.

He paused, his gaze narrowing as it fixed on Kraka, and for a heartbeat, a terrible quiet settled over the field. Then, in a voice raw and feral, he let out a howl—sharp and commanding, slicing through the dawn like a blade. It was not a cry of brute force but a sinister, rallying call that rippled down his ranks, drawing from them a fierce echo of snarls and howls that shook the air.

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And with that signal, the Windcloaks surged forward as one, a fearsome tide of fur and steel. Narg moved with them, swift and relentless, his eyes locked onto Kraka, as though already savoring the clash to come—the blood to be shed.

As Narg’s howl faded in the air, Leon felt his heart pound painfully against his ribs. A tremor started in his legs, and instinctively, he took a step back, his every nerve screaming at him to retreat, to put as much distance as possible between himself and the oncoming horde. But before he could move another inch, two firm grips stopped him in his tracks.

Varra and Barg each rested a hand on his shoulders, grounding him, their touch steady and unyielding. He glanced up, looking first at Varra, then at Barg, seeing in their eyes a grimness that was almost haunting. There was fear, yes, but it was tempered by something far stronger—a fierce, unbreakable resolve. Their expressions were hard as stone, and in that moment, he understood: they had no intentions of fleeing, only of fighting, regardless of the cost.

That resolve seeped into Leon, stilling his panicked thoughts, and he forced himself to breathe, to let the weight of their determination anchor him, a silent promise that he would face the coming storm by their side.

He called on his Skill, [Anger, My Warmth], letting it rise in him like a slow, consuming fire. The skill began to take hold, the heat building from a flicker to a blaze, chasing away the cold grip of fear that had tightened around his heart.

He hadn’t yet learned to fully control his anger, but he knew how to let it loose. He’d never been in a real battle—there weren’t many of those where he came from—but thanks to his temper, he’d been in plenty of fights.

When he had fought against the bear, he had caught a glimpse of what true control could feel like. For a brief moment, in the heat of the struggle, he had sensed a calmness wash over him, as if Khazarg’s teachings had ignited something deep within. It was a fleeting glimpse, a flicker of potential, something that he longed to grasp fully.

Khazarg had often spoken of the Skill that could help him channel his anger, to transform it from a wild flame into a focused blade. [Glacial Wrath]. Leon felt the weight of that knowledge pressing down on him now, as the chaos of battle swirled around him.

He desperately wanted to learn it.

The memory of that fleeting moment stirred within him, and he ground his teeth, setting his jaw. With this thought in mind, he stood shoulder to shoulder with Varra and Barg, feeling their pulses sync with his as they braced for the storm ahead.

Far ahead of him, Kraka stepped forward. The chieftain held his axe high, his voice low and steady as he spoke, as if drawing the focus of his clan like iron to a magnet.

"Er'Dovaz." His gaze swept over his warriors, each one locked on him with unwavering loyalty. "[Until Our Dying Breath]."

And as his words hung heavy in the air, Kraka lifted his head to the sky and let out a deep, guttural howl—a rallying cry, fierce and raw. The entire tribe, Leon included, took up the call, their voices rising in unison, a wild, defiant chorus echoing through the frozen dawn.

Just as the Windcloaks surged forward, Khazarg charged out to meet them, his white twin axes flashing as he cut through the first ranks with a brutal, relentless fury. A heartbeat later, Varra’s arrow flew from her bow with deadly precision, finding its mark in the throat of a charging Windcloak.

Behind them, Kazarai lifted his staff high, chanting in a low, resonant voice as his spell coiled outward—a surge of golden energy weaving through the Er’Dovaz, strengthening their defenses.

An instant later, the Windcloaks crashed into their lines, and the snow and ice beneath them turned red.