The west wing was carnage.
Lara kicked a collapsing door off its hinges and ducked under a falling beam, blades slick with blood, her breathing sharp and rhythmic.
Raveth was beside her, a force of nature wrapped in obsidian armor, her glaive spinning like a cyclone through enemy lines.
Controlled guards fell one by one.
Some screamed. Others didn't even blink.
They weren't themselves eyes glowing red, expressions vacant, movements too precise to be natural. They fought like they felt no pain, like they feared nothing. And they kept coming.
"How many does she have?" Lara grunted, cutting through the final guard in the hallway with a clean slash.
"Too many," Raveth answered, not even winded. "But not enough."
That, Lara knew, wasn't confidence it was fury, barely contained beneath discipline.
They advanced into a wider chamber: an old war gallery repurposed into some kind of garrison post. Armor racks had been pushed aside.
