Varkas wipes the blood from his jaw, his eyes still sharp but calmer. "Those humans… they were more troublesome than expected."
Sorin's gaze flicks to the retreating army. Soldiers are scattered, stumbling over debris, their faces painted with terror. "Sir, should we go after the fleeing enemy?"
Varkas snorts, rolling his shoulders. "There's no need. The shadows will take care of them."
Elaine leads the retreat, her legs heavy, her mind numb. The image of her fallen companions—Selian, Jupus, Orin, and Walric—flashes over and over. Her breaths come in ragged gasps, but she forces herself to keep running, leading the survivors. Five thousand soldiers—just a fraction of what they were—trailing behind her.
Then, shadows move. Figures emerge—swift, ruthless, silent. One by one, the fleeing soldiers fall. Blood splatters, cries of desperation pierce the chaos.
Elaine's heart pounds. She grits her teeth, forcing her eyes forward—until a presence materializes before her.
Vaelith.
