The battlefield was drowning in blood.
Damien's sword was slick with black ichor, his arms burned from the exertion of relentless slaughter. His Sacred Flame flickered at his fingertips, golden embers clashing against the overwhelming darkness. The air itself felt heavy, thick with the scent of burning fur, blood, and decay. The screams of dying warriors and the sickening crunch of torn flesh merged into a deafening cacophony.
He was not alone in this nightmare.
Anna's lightning carved through the night, a brilliant streak of destruction, but her breaths were ragged, her stance unsteady. Her once-determined gaze wavered as she watched warriors—her comrades—reduced to torn limbs and scattered entrails. Flesh ripped open like parchment, cries cut short in gurgling horror. Her gut twisted, nausea rising, but she clenched her teeth and forced herself to keep fighting.
