Eliza’s eyes narrowed as the attacking warband closed the distance. She counted quickly, her stomach sinking. At least a hundred. Perhaps nearer two. Against Rakhal’s force of no more than two dozen.
The odds were brutal.
She turned sharply to the soldiers clustered at her side. “You will fire upon the approaching horde,” she commanded. “But not upon the ones that defend them.”
“Yes, Queen,” they answered in near unison, savage glee flashing in their eyes at the chance to strike back.
Crossbows were raised, strings groaning with tension.
Captain Sorell stepped forward, his face hard now, his hesitation gone. He looked at her with renewed resolve. “You heard our queen,” he barked. “Ready, men…” He paused, just long enough for the air to grow taut with anticipation. “And… fire!”
A storm of iron bolts ripped into the night.
The crossbows were powerful, the quarrels long and strong, forged to pierce armor. They cut through the air with deadly whistles, striking the front ranks of the charging orcs.
A few went down, snarling in pain.
But not enough.
Orc hide was thick, their armor thicker still. They raised broad shields against the storm, and those who fell were trampled by the ones behind. The horde did not falter.
They kept coming.
The archers growled in frustration, already cranking their crossbows, bolts snapping into place, eager to loose another salvo.
But then—something astonishing happened.
The shadows stirred.
They spread outward from the wall, like black water seeping into the earth, rippling across the plain. Eliza’s breath caught in her throat as she watched Rakhal peel away from his line. He moved fast, running forward, his arm lifting in a sharp signal that kept his soldiers—and the female commander—rooted where they stood.
And then, in the torchlight, before her very eyes… he vanished.
One heartbeat he was there, cutting a lone figure against the horde. The next—gone. Swallowed by the dark.
The shadows rolled outward, faster now, thick as smoke, black as ink, until they engulfed the oncoming horde. Torches flickered once, twice—then winked out, smothered in the dark.
Everything stopped.
The night itself seemed to hold its breath.
Then it came.
The screams.
Harsh, guttural cries that tore through the stillness. The clash of steel. The sickening sound of bodies falling, of death dealt swift and unseen.
Eliza’s hands clenched on the stone parapet, her chest tightening as the noise rose and echoed across the plains.
And yet… Rakhal’s soldiers did not move.
They stood firm in their line, their weapons lowered but ready. Silent. Unflinching. Not one of them stepped forward.
As if they already knew—had always known—not to go into the shadows with him.
Around her, the city’s soldiers and even the mages muttered under their breath, their voices low with horrified fascination at what they were witnessing.
She watched the chaos thin and peel away like torn cloth. Men ran, orcs vanished into the black, and the field emptied until only the echo of conflict remained. Her chest was tight; the night smelled of blood and smoke and something metallic that sat beneath everything.
