Smoke curled through the skies like dying prayers, the scent of blood and burning flesh thick in the air.
The sun—if it could still be called that—was veiled behind a blanket of ash and winged beasts.
Below it, at the foot of a valley once used by farmers, battle raged.
Herios stood at the forefront, his muscles tense and slick with sweat, his cracked bronze sword held high.
"CHARGE!"
His voice roared like thunder, and his tribe surged forward at his command—men and women wielding crude spears, jagged swords, and wooden shields bound with sinew.
The other tribe leaders also led their tribe to attack.
Their war cries filled the air as they clashed with the beasts.
The monsters—creatures twisted by chaos, with tusks of iron and limbs like scythes—met the charge head-on.
Some crawled on all fours with shrieking mouths in their chests, while others stood tall like giants, swiping aside humans like flies.
