The fires reflected in Magnus’s iron mask as he stood atop a ridge overlooking Refuge. Below, the chaos of the siege unfurled in perfect disarray—smoke curling into the sky, shouts and screams tangling with the clash of steel, and the warm red of spilled blood pooling in the dirt. To Magnus, it was beautiful, a symphony of destruction played out under his watchful eye.
“Resistance,” Magnus mused, his voice low and muffled by the iron mask, “is an ember. Starve it of air, and it dies. Drown it in fire, and it becomes ash.”
He turned to his lieutenants, the dark shadows who carried his will into the fray. Jace stood closest, his wiry frame tense with impatience. A necklace of human teeth rattled faintly as his hand rested on the hilt of his blade, itching for the next kill. His smile was sharp, feral, as he peered down at the chaos below.
“They’re stubborn,” Jace said, his tone a mix of frustration and admiration. “Their traps are well-placed. We’ve lost more than expected.”
Magnus tilted his head, the grotesque grin of his mask catching the flicker of flames. “Stubbornness is merely the prelude to despair. Their cleverness will break as all things do, Jace. Patience.”
Further back, Sister Amara knelt in the dirt, her hands clasped tightly around a staff topped with a jagged blade. Her face, a canvas of scars etched with devotion, was lit by the glow of the fires. She chanted softly, the words a mix of reverence and malice, her prayers rising like smoke to the darkened skies.
“They will break,” she murmured, her voice lilting and melodic despite its venom. “The eye sees their fear. Their walls will burn, and their screams will rise to meet the heavens.”
Reynard, a towering brute, flexed his massive hands, the jagged spikes of his gauntlets glinting. He let out a low chuckle, his teeth filed to vicious points. “Fear doesn’t mean much when you crush them fast enough. Let me at the gate, and I’ll clear it myself.”
Magnus turned his gaze to Reynard, the air between them heavy with unspoken command. “Patience, my hammer. Your time will come.”
Elias, silent as ever, stood at the edge of the ridge, his crossbow resting on his shoulder. He was lean and focused, his movements calculated. A scavenged scope gleamed atop his weapon, and he scanned the battlements of Refuge with the precision of a predator hunting its prey. He spoke only when necessary, his words clipped and deliberate. “The girl,” he said finally, his crossbow tracking a figure near the east wall. “She fights like a fledgling. Easy prey.”
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Magnus let out a low chuckle, a sound that seemed almost unnatural coming from behind the mask. “Not yet. Let her watch her walls fall. Let her taste the despair that precedes ruin.”
He turned back to the battlefield, his voice rising, calm but commanding. “Jace, lead the next push. Amara, ensure the flames consume them. Reynard, the gates are yours when the time comes. Elias… take your time. The strongest must kneel.”
The lieutenants moved without hesitation, spreading out to carry out Magnus’s orders. He remained on the ridge, his hands clasped behind his back, watching as the flames grew. Below, the battle raged, chaotic and unrelenting. To Magnus, it was not merely destruction—it was purification. A lesson for those who clung to the ruins of the past.
Jace moved like a shadow through the chaos, his blade slicing through defenders with surgical precision. He climbed a barricade with ease, his movements fluid and feline. At the top, he found a man armed with a spear—a farmer, judging by his lack of technique. The man lunged, but Jace sidestepped gracefully, driving his blade into the man’s gut with a cruel smile.
“Too slow,” Jace hissed, yanking the blade free and letting the body collapse.
Further along the wall, Sister Amara raised her staff high, her chants rising into a shriek. Her followers, zealots marked with the Sanctified’s crude symbols, surged forward with torches, hurling them over the walls of Refuge. The dry wood of the barricades caught quickly, the flames roaring to life and sending defenders scrambling to douse them.
Reynard, laughing like a man possessed, charged toward the eastern gate. His massive frame barreled through the first line of traps, the spikes and pits barely slowing him. A defender swung a club at him, but Reynard caught it with one hand, his spiked gauntlet crunching the wood. With a grin, he grabbed the man by the throat and lifted him off the ground, slamming him into the dirt with brutal force.
“Come on!” Reynard roared, his voice booming. “Is this all you’ve got?”
From his perch, Elias tracked the defenders with cold precision. He ignored the panicked rabble, his scope settling instead on Grizzley, whose machete cut through the chaos like a reaper’s scythe. Elias adjusted his aim, watching for an opening. “Not yet,” he muttered, his finger resting lightly on the trigger.
Magnus descended the ridge slowly, his presence like a shadow cast over the battlefield. Everywhere he walked, his followers seemed to move with renewed fervor, their chants growing louder. He paused at the burning barricades, tilting his head as he watched the flames consume the wood.
“Beautiful,” he murmured.
A scout approached, bloodied and panting. “The outer walls are falling, my lord. Their defenses are failing.”
Magnus reached out, resting a hand on the scout’s shoulder. “Good. But do not grow complacent. The moment before collapse is when prey fights most fiercely.”
The scout nodded and ran off, leaving Magnus to continue his measured march toward the gates. He could feel it—the pulse of fear within Refuge, the crack in their resolve. The eye saw all, and soon, it would see them kneel.
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