Chapter 18: The Storm Stirs
Seeker’s scream still lingered in the air, its echoes carried on the biting wind. Around him, the front line shifted uneasily, the tide of chaos ebbing just enough to give the humans a moment to breathe. The freed slaves and soldiers glanced at one another, their resolve steeled by the sound, their fear tempered into something harder.
Seeker exhaled sharply, his chest heaving as the storm inside him clawed for release. The air around him crackled faintly, threads of electricity dancing along the haft of his spear. His gaze swept across the line, catching on Jara, who stood with her bow at the ready, her face pale but determined.
He nodded.
Jara didn’t hesitate. She motioned to a handful of Seeker’s unit, Liora among them and a group of slaves who had fought fiercely but were faltering. They broke from the front line quickly, their movements smooth and practiced despite the chaos. Behind them, others surged forward to fill the gap, their weapons raised, their faces set in grim determination.
Seeker didn’t watch them go. His eyes were locked ahead, where Karnath stood like a shadow against the pale sky. The Wild Elf warlord was still now, his golden eyes fixed on Seeker with an intensity that matched the storm inside him. Behind Karnath lay Harken’s broken body, crumpled in the bloodstained snow.
Seeker stepped forward, each movement deliberate, his grip on the spear tightening.
Karnath’s grin spread slowly as Seeker closed the distance. The warlord’s twin axes dripped crimson, his stance loose but ready, a predator savoring the moment before the kill.
“So, you’re the one they scream for,” Karnath said, his voice carrying a note of amusement. He tilted his head, studying Seeker like a wolf sizing up a rival. “You’ve got their fear. Their anger. I wonder—” his axes shifted in his hands, the blades gleaming “…is it yours too? Or are you just a fool who doesn’t know when to die?”
Seeker didn’t answer. His gaze flicked to Harken’s body behind Karnath, the storm in his chest roiling, tightening. The grief was sharp, but the anger was sharper.
Karnath chuckled, a deep, rumbling sound that seemed to vibrate through the frozen ground. “Silent, then. That’s fine. More fun for me.” He spread his arms wide, the axes gleaming in the dim light. “Come on, then. Show me what all the noise is about.”
Seeker stepped into striking range, the storm surging with each heartbeat. He didn’t speak, didn’t break his gaze from Karnath.
The Wild Elf’s grin faltered slightly, confusion flickering across his face for the briefest moment. “Still staring at the dead man, are you?” Karnath sneered, jerking his head toward Harken’s body. “You should be looking at me. He’s gone. I’m the one who’s going to kill you.”
Seeker’s voice, when it came, was quiet. Controlled. “You’ll try.”
Karnath roared, his axes flashing forward in a brutal arc. Seeker moved instantly, his spear snapping up to meet the blow. The impact sent a shockwave rippling through the air, sparks flying as lightning met steel.
The force of the clash drove Karnath back a step, his grin returning as he steadied himself. “Not bad,” he said, lunging forward with another swing.
Seeker sidestepped, his spear spinning in his hands as he parried the strike and thrust toward Karnath’s exposed side. The warlord twisted, one axe deflecting the blow while the other swung low toward Seeker’s legs.
The spear crackled as Seeker leapt back, the blade missing him by inches. He pressed forward again, the power inside him flaring with each movement. The spear struck out in a blur of motion, the lightning along its length growing brighter with each strike.
Karnath blocked and countered with brutal efficiency, his axes moving in a deadly rhythm. Each clash of their weapons echoed across the battlefield, drawing the eyes of those nearby.
“You’re strong,” Karnath admitted, his breath misting in the cold air. “Faster than I thought. But strength and speed aren’t enough, human. Not against me.”
Seeker didn’t respond. He struck again, his movements precise, each thrust and swing forcing Karnath to retreat step by step.
Karnath’s grin widened, his eyes gleaming. “Good,” he said, his voice a low growl. “That means this might actually be worth something.”
Their weapons clashed again, the storm around Seeker surging, the snow beneath their feet scorched and stained with blood.
---
The battlefield was a maelstrom of blood and chaos.
The main body of the Elven army clashed against the Archduke’s forces like a tidal wave meeting a crumbling seawall. The humans fought with grim resolve, their shields interlocked, their blades flashing in desperate arcs. But the Elves were relentless.
The Dark Elves moved like phantoms, their forms slipping through the chaos with an unnatural grace. One moment, they were in the thick of the human ranks, their blades carving through flesh and armor with surgical precision. The next, they vanished into the shadows, their forms dissolving like smoke on the wind.
“Where are they?” a soldier shouted, his voice trembling as he spun in search of an enemy that was no longer there.
A sharp laugh echoed behind him, cold and mocking. He turned, but it was already too late. A Dark Elf emerged from the shadows, her twin daggers glinting in the dim light. One blade found the seam beneath his helm, slipping into his throat with terrifying ease. The other pierced his chest, driving through chainmail as though it were silk. Blood spilled from his mouth as he collapsed, his legs giving out beneath him.
She was gone before his body hit the ground, her form vanishing into the swirling smoke and chaos, leaving nothing but the wet sound of his body crumpling to the blood-soaked earth.
Another soldier caught sight of her, a flicker of shadow moving unnaturally fast. “There!” he shouted, thrusting his spear toward her retreating form.
The Dark Elf turned, her movements impossibly smooth, her lips curling into a predatory grin. She darted forward, slipping past the spear’s reach with an elegance that made the weapon seem clumsy. Her dagger slashed upward, severing the soldier’s wrist in a spray of crimson.
His scream was short-lived. Her second dagger plunged into his stomach, the blade twisting as she yanked it free, his entrails spilling out as he dropped to his knees.
“Too slow,” she whispered, her voice carrying over the chaos like a dark melody.
She disappeared again, a blur of motion that dissolved into the smoke, her laughter trailing behind her.
A cluster of human defenders huddled together, their shields raised, their backs pressed against one another as they searched for the unseen enemy.
“Stay close!” their leader barked, his knuckles white as he gripped his sword. “Eyes sharp! They can’t take all of us if we hold together!”
The shadows seemed to ripple around them, and the air grew unnaturally cold. The first strike came from above, a dagger arcing down from the darkness and burying itself in a soldier’s exposed neck. He gurgled, blood streaming down his breastplate as he fell.
The Dark Elf dropped with him, her feet landing soundlessly on the ground. Before the others could react, her blades moved in a deadly blur. She slipped between two shields, her daggers finding the soft flesh beneath armor. One soldier screamed as she carved through his side; another gasped as her blade pierced his heart.
The group scattered, their formation broken in an instant.
“Cowards,” she hissed, her voice dripping with disdain. She vanished again, her form melting into the shadows as the humans fled in panic.
A young recruit stood alone, his shield trembling in his grasp. He spun in circles, his breath coming in short, panicked gasps. Every sound around him felt sharper, closer, the clash of steel, the cries of the dying, the eerie whispers of laughter that seemed to echo in his ears.
Then she was there.
She stepped out of the shadows as if emerging from nowhere, her silver eyes gleaming like a predator’s in the dim light. The recruit froze, his heart hammering in his chest as he stared at her. She smiled, her teeth white against her blood smeared face.
“Run,” she said softly.
The recruit bolted, his shield clattering to the ground as he turned to flee. He didn’t get far. She moved like smoke, appearing in front of him before he could even scream. Her dagger plunged into his chest, driving upward into his heart. He collapsed into her arms, his body convulsing as she whispered into his ear.
“Good boy,” she said, lowering him gently to the ground as if cradling a lover.
She rose, blood dripping from her daggers, her silver eyes scanning the battlefield for her next victim.
The Dark Elves were everywhere and nowhere, their presence a phantom that haunted the human lines. They didn’t just kill; they terrorized, their strikes breaking more than flesh and bone. They broke wills, shattered formations, and left a trail of blood and fear in their wake.
In the center of the Elven advance, the High Elves moved with a precision that bordered on art. Their every motion was deliberate, every strike calculated. Magic crackled through the air like a second heartbeat, fireballs erupting in controlled bursts, bolts of lightning arcing from their hands to shatter human ranks. Shimmering barriers flickered into existence, turning arrows and spears into harmless dust before vanishing without a trace.
The ground beneath the humans was scorched and broken, littered with bodies and twisted remnants of once-proud armor. A group of human knights spurred their horses forward, their war cries echoing through the chaos. They charged toward a cluster of High Elven mages, their lances gleaming, their banners trailing behind them like desperate prayers.
The lead mage stepped forward, raising a hand with the ease of someone brushing away a nuisance. A faint golden glow surrounded him, and the air seemed to thicken. The knights’ warhorses faltered mid-stride, their movements sluggish as though caught in invisible chains. One horse buckled, its legs folding awkwardly beneath it, sending its rider tumbling to the ground.
The mage’s lips curled into a faint smile. He gestured again, and the remaining horses collapsed one by one, their riders shouting in confusion and terror as they were thrown into the churned, blood soaked earth.
The High Elves moved in perfect unison, their precision swords flickering like silver streaks. They descended upon the dismounted knights with a calm efficiency, their blades slipping through armor seams as if guided by invisible threads.
The knights barely had time to react. One raised his shield, only for it to shatter as a glowing blade struck it. The sword pierced through his chest a heartbeat later, his cry cut short as he crumpled to the ground. Another knight swung his mace in a desperate arc, only to find his weapon deflected by a shimmering barrier. The mage who cast it stepped forward, his blade moving in a single, flawless motion. The knight’s head fell from his shoulders, rolling across the trampled earth as his body crumpled.
Their armor might as well have been paper.
At the rear of the Elven formation, a lone mage stood, his hands weaving complex sigils in the air. His robes fluttered as the wind around him picked up, charged with the raw power of his spell. He muttered an incantation, and a surge of energy erupted from his hands.
A line of human infantry, thirty men strong, was caught in the blast. The air shimmered as the spell detonated, an explosion of light and heat that turned the front ranks to ash. The remaining soldiers were hurled backward, their bodies slamming into the ground with sickening thuds. Limbs twisted at unnatural angles, and screams filled the air as the survivors writhed in pain.
The mage lowered his hands, his cold, piercing eyes scanning the destruction. His expression didn’t shift, there was no pride, no malice. Just the quiet certainty of a craftsman admiring his work.
Then he faltered.
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A human soldier emerged from the smoke, his face bloodied, his armor scorched. He staggered forward, clutching a spear with trembling hands. His eyes burned with defiance, a spark that refused to be extinguished.
The mage raised a hand, preparing another spell, but he was a breath too slow. The spear flew from the soldier’s grasp, arcing through the air with desperate precision. It struck the mage’s side, piercing his ribs and driving deep.
The High Elf gasped, his hand faltering as the spell dissipated. Blood blossomed across his pristine robes, staining the embroidered runes. He dropped to one knee, his blade slipping from his grasp.
The human soldier smiled faintly, his body swaying as he took another step forward. His strength gave out before he could reach the mage, and he crumpled to the ground, the light in his eyes dimming.
The High Elf knelt there for a moment, clutching the spear embedded in his side. He reached for his blade with trembling fingers, his cold eyes narrowing as he turned toward the fallen human.
With a final effort, he rose, lifting the blade in a smooth, precise motion. He drove it downward, piercing the soldier’s chest. Blood pooled beneath the human’s body, his defiance lingering even as the light faded from his face.
The mage stood over him, breathing heavily, his composure frayed but intact. He wrenched the spear from his side, his hands glowing faintly as a healing spell sealed the wound. The human was dead.
But the spark he had carried refused to leave the battlefield.
On the flanks, the Wild Elves charged with unrestrained ferocity, their war cries savage and raw. They moved like an avalanche of flesh and fury, hurling themselves into the human lines with reckless abandon. Their axes and blades carved through flesh and steel alike, their movements driven by a primal hunger for violence.
A massive Wild Elf at the forefront wielded a hammer the size of a man, its head a block of jagged iron stained dark with old blood. He smashed through the shield wall like a battering ram, each swing of his weapon shattering shields, bones, and resolve. The sound of the impact was sickening, a dull crunch followed by the wet splatter of flesh and blood.
A young soldier screamed as the hammer struck his shield, the force of the blow snapping his arm like a dry twig. The hammer swung back in a deadly arc, crushing the man’s chest with a sound like a collapsing building. His body flew backward, colliding with two of his comrades, the force of the impact leaving them sprawled and stunned.
The hammer-wielding Wild Elf roared, his voice a guttural bellow that seemed to shake the very air. Blood sprayed in wide arcs as he dragged another soldier from the line, the man’s screams cutting off as the Elf threw him into his comrades with a feral snarl.
“Hold!” a sergeant bellowed, his voice raw with desperation. He shoved his men forward, their spears forming a trembling wall of steel. “Push them back!”
The humans surged forward, their spears thrusting in unison. One caught the hammer-wielding Wild Elf in the thigh, the tip driving deep into the muscle. He staggered, his grin widening as if the pain only fueled him. Another spear struck his shoulder, piercing through his leather armor and pinning his arm to his side.
“Is that all you have?” he roared, spitting blood as he swung his hammer one-handed. The weapon slammed into the ground, missing its mark but sending a shockwave that knocked two soldiers off their feet.
A third spear drove upward, catching him in the throat. The steel point punched through skin and muscle, blood gushing in a crimson torrent that painted his chest. He dropped to his knees, his massive frame swaying as the hammer slipped from his grasp.
And still, he laughed.
The sound was deep and wet, each chuckle rattling with the gurgle of blood in his lungs. His hand reached for the hammer again, fingers trembling as they brushed the hilt. The laughter faltered, his breath hitching in a series of sharp, uneven gasps.
He fell forward, his face slamming into the blood-soaked earth. His hand twitched once, twice, before going still.
The soldiers stared at the massive corpse, their breaths ragged, their grips tightening on their spears. For a moment, the line held.
Then another Wild Elf crashed into them with a howl, her twin axes carving through armor and flesh in a deadly whirlwind.
There was no time to mourn. No time to think. Only the battle.
Above it all, the Wood Elves rained death from the treetops and ridges, their arrows whispering through the air like the promise of silence. Their precision was devastating, their movements as fluid as wind through the branches.
A human commander stood tall in the chaos, his shield raised as he barked orders to his soldiers. His voice carried above the din, firm and commanding. “Advance! Keep together, and…”
The words died on his lips as an arrow pierced his visor with a soft thunk. For a heartbeat, he remained upright, his body frozen, his outstretched hand still gesturing for his men to move forward. Then his knees buckled, and he crumpled to the ground, his sword falling from his hand. Blood seeped through the narrow slit of his visor, pooling beneath him in a dark stain.
The soldiers around him faltered, their formation breaking as they stared at their fallen leader. Another arrow whispered through the air, and a man fell clutching his throat, his scream gurgling into silence.
“Stay together!” a sergeant shouted, his voice cracking with panic. He raised his shield just in time to catch a volley, the force of the arrows nearly wrenching it from his grasp.
It didn’t matter. The Wood Elves moved with deadly rhythm, their bows snapping upward in perfect unison. Another volley followed, and another.
Each arrow was a surgeon’s cut, precise and deadly. One found the seam beneath a soldier’s arm, driving through muscle and lung. He dropped his spear, staggering back with a strangled cry before collapsing into the mud. Another arrow punched through a gap in a knight’s armor, the fletching quivering as blood bubbled from his mouth.
The Wood Elves perched on the ridges and treetops like wraiths, their movements so seamless they seemed to merge with the trees. From below, the humans caught only glimpses, flickers of cloaks, the faint gleam of drawn bows, the cold glint of sharp eyes.
“Where are they?” a soldier cried, his head whipping from side to side.
The answer came in the form of an arrow that buried itself in his chest. He stumbled forward, his shield slipping from his grasp as he clawed at the shaft. The arrow had gone deep, the steel tip punching through to his back. He fell to his knees, gasping, before pitching face first into the dirt.
Another soldier turned to run, his nerve breaking, but the Wood Elves’ arrows showed no mercy to cowards. A shaft struck him in the base of the neck, severing his spine. He fell mid step, his body limp, his death a quiet punctuation amidst the cries of the living.
Above, the Wood Elves moved again, their positions shifting like leaves carried by a breeze. They were impossible to pin down, their volleys coming from new angles with each passing moment. A soldier crouched behind his shield, panting heavily, his eyes wide with fear. He dared to peek around the edge, just for a moment.
An arrow struck his eye.
The humans could do little but huddle together, their shields raised in a trembling wall of defense. The Wood Elves rained their arrows upon them like a storm, finding every weakness, every exposed seam, every unguarded throat.
To the humans, the arrows were death given shape, silent, swift, and unstoppable.
And yet, amidst the chaos, the human army held.
It was not elegant. It was not clean. It was raw, desperate, and ugly.
A knight swung his sword with wild abandon, hacking at an advancing High Elf. The Elf parried with a graceful flick of his blade, the movements fluid and precise. But the knight pressed forward, bashing his shield into the Elf’s face before driving his sword into the warrior’s chest with a savage roar.
A farmer-turned soldier screamed as he lunged at a Wild Elf, his hands white-knuckled around the haft of a pitchfork. The tines punched into the Elf’s chest, the force driving the warrior back a step. The Wild Elf grinned, spitting blood, and yanked the pitchfork deeper into himself, dragging the farmer closer. He swung a jagged axe, but the farmer shoved harder, screaming louder than the Elf as he forced the weapon back through the body.
A sergeant moved among the ranks, shoving men and women back into line with both hands. “Hold, damn you!” he shouted, his voice breaking with strain. Arrows and spells rained down around him, but he didn’t flinch. He grabbed a terrified boy by the collar and thrust a shield into his hands. “Get in there, or your family dies with the rest of us!” The boy nodded, his face pale, and stumbled back into the line.
They held not because they were stronger, faster, or more skilled. They held because they had no choice. Behind them lay their homes, their families, and the lives they could not abandon.
Above the melee, the Elves’ siege engines loomed like the skeletal remains of ancient beasts. The Elves trebuchets launched massive stones, their enchantments crackling as they hurled destruction across the battlefield. The first stone smashed into the human ranks with a sound like thunder, tearing through shields and bodies alike.
A soldier screamed as the projectile crushed his legs, leaving him writhing in the mud. Another landed beside a tightly packed cluster of men, the explosion of dirt and stone sending limbs flying in every direction.
“Take them down!” bellowed a human captain, pointing toward the distant ridge where the trebuchets stood. A volley of ballista bolts arced toward the Elven siege engines, but shimmering barriers flickered into existence, deflecting the bolts harmlessly aside.
The Wild Elves manned battering rams, their brutish machines bristling with spikes. They roared as they pushed forward, their chants rising above the chaos. One ram broke through a human barricade, its spiked head tearing through the wooden defenses. The Wild Elves surged in behind it, axes gleaming, their war cries like thunderclaps.
Amidst the smoke and fire, the Wood Elves unleashed another volley from their massive bows, their precision deadly even at such a range. Arrows the size of spears rained down, piercing through armor and impaling soldiers who were too slow to find cover. A knight raised his shield just in time, the impact shattering his arm and driving him to the ground.
The destruction was total. The siege engines tore through the human lines like the hand of an angry god.
And yet the humans endured.
A young soldier screamed as a Dark Elf leapt toward him, her daggers flashing like liquid silver. He raised his shield instinctively, the blades biting into the wood instead of his throat. Her grin was sharp, her silver eyes gleaming with cruel delight as she leaned in to twist her blades free.
But another soldier struck from the side, his spear driving into her ribs with a sickening crunch. The Dark Elf’s mouth opened in surprise, her smile fading as blood gushed from her wound. She turned her head to the soldier, her lips curling into a faint smirk even as she fell. Blood stained her perfect white teeth as she collapsed, lifeless.
The line bent, wavered, but did not break.
“Hold!” came the bellowing voice of the Venn, Archduke banner flying high above the fray. His gilded armor gleamed even through the blood and ash, his blade cutting down any Elf who dared approach him. A High Elf mage sent a bolt of fire toward him, but he raised his shield, the enchanted metal deflecting the flames harmlessly away. “We hold here, or we die here!”
Beside him, the Count fought with brutal efficiency. He drove his sword into an advancing Wild Elf, his strikes quick and methodical, each motion precise. Blood spattered across his face, but he didn’t falter. His pale features were lined with exhaustion, his breath coming in sharp gasps, but his resolve did not waver.
The battlefield was a storm of chaos and death, the clash of wills seeming impossible to endure.
A High Elf charged the Venn, his blade glowing with a faint, deadly light. The emissary caught the strike with his shield and drove his sword upward in a single, brutal thrust. The High Elf gasped, his expression twisting in surprise before the blade drove through his chest.
The humans, bloodied and battered, closed ranks once more.
And yet, the line held.
---
The forest loomed thick and oppressive, its ancient trees twisting into a canopy that blotted out the faint light of the sun. Jara crouched low, her hand resting on the arrow nocked in her bow. Beside her, Liora gripped her spear tightly, the frost creeping along its length mirroring the chill in her gaze. Around them, the former gladiators and freed slaves moved in tense silence, their breaths visible in the cold air.
The plan had been simple, lure the Wood Elves from the forest, divide their focus, and strike hard. But something felt wrong now. The silence wasn’t natural.
Then Sylvara appeared.
She stepped from the shadows like a wraith, her pale green cloak blending seamlessly with the forest around her. Her silver eyes glinted, and her bow was already in hand, though she didn’t need to raise it. Around her, dozens of Wood Elves emerged, their bows trained on Jara and her group. The former slaves shifted nervously, their makeshift weapons trembling in their hands.
“You humans never cease to amaze me,” Sylvara said, her voice soft but carrying an edge that cut deeper than any blade. “Your stupidity knows no bounds.”
Jara said nothing, her eyes scanning the Wood Elves. They had them surrounded, their movements silent as the falling snow.
Sylvara took a slow step forward, her gaze locked on Jara. “You think you can sneak in the sacred woods and leave unscathed? This forest has existed for centuries, and you are nothing but a fleeting stain upon it. Your kind…” she spat the word like poison, “ …will be exterminated in every corner of this world.”
Liora tensed beside Jara, her frost-covered spear twitching. “You talk too much,” she muttered, her breath misting in the air.
Sylvara smiled faintly, raising a hand to still her warriors. “And you are far too bold, little frostling. But boldness does not save fools from death.”
Jara smiled then, a small, knowing smile that caught Sylvara off guard. She let out a faint laugh, quiet but cutting in the tense silence.
“This is for Harken,” Jara said, her voice calm, almost serene.
Sylvara’s eyes narrowed. “Harken?” she whispered, the name foreign on her lips.
Then the forest began to move.
The ground trembled faintly, and the air grew thick with an energy that made the Wood Elves pause. Vines slithered out from the undergrowth, creeping toward Sylvara’s warriors. The trees groaned, their ancient limbs twisting and creaking as though waking from a long slumber.
“What is this?” Sylvara whispered, her composure slipping. Her gaze snapped back to Jara, who stood tall now, her bow at her side, her eyes glowing faintly with a green light.
“You shouldn’t have come here,” Jara said, her voice low, filled with something ancient and unyielding.
Sylvara’s eyes widened, her lips parting to form a name. “Forest Daughter.”
The vines struck. They lashed out like living whips, wrapping around limbs and pulling warriors to the ground. Roots erupted from beneath the snow, coiling around legs and dragging Wood Elves screaming into the earth.
Chaos broke loose.
While Sylvara’s warriors struggled against the forest itself, Illara and her soldiers struck from the rear. Their movements had been hidden, their approach masked by the very forest Jara had stirred to life.
Illara’s voice rang out as her soldiers surged forward. “For Torvald!” she cried, her blade flashing in the moonlight as she drove it into a distracted Wood Elf.
The Wood Elves turned too late, their precision faltering as they were struck from behind. Illara’s soldiers fought with ruthless efficiency, their blades cutting through the elegant forms of their foes.
Liora moved with frost laden fury, her spear spinning in a blur of cold light. She drove it into the chest of an archer who had managed to fire a shot at Jara, the frost spreading across the Elf’s body before shattering him into brittle shards.
“Hold them here!” Illara shouted, her voice cutting through the chaos. “Don’t let them regroup!”
The former gladiators and slaves formed a protective circle around Jara and Liora, their weapons striking out with desperation and raw determination.
Sylvara regained her composure, her bow snapping upward as she loosed an arrow at Jara. The shot was true, but a branch swept down, deflecting the arrow mid flight.
“This is your doing,” Sylvara hissed, her voice trembling with a mix of fury and awe.
Sylvara raised her bow again, but Liora was already moving. The frost on her spear flared, and she struck out, the blade aimed for Sylvara’s chest. The Wood Elf dodged, her movements fluid and graceful, but Illara closed the gap, her sword flashing.
The three women clashed, their strikes fast and deadly, the air around them thick with the energy of the awakened forest.
Vines lashed out at Sylvara, forcing her to retreat. She spun, firing arrows with inhuman speed, but the humans pressed her harder. Illara’s blade slashed across her arm, drawing blood. Liora thrust her spear, the frost searing as it grazed Sylvara’s side.
Still, Sylvara fought on, her movements sharp and precise.
Around them, the battle in the forest continued, the freed slaves and gladiators holding the line against the remaining Wood Elves. The humans were battered and bloodied, their weapons clashing against the elegant blades of their enemies.
The forest itself seemed to fight with them, vines and roots lashing out at the Wood Elves, giving the humans precious seconds to regroup and strike.
Jara whispered. “For Harken!”