From the watchtowers on Björn's side of the wall, a commanding officer blinked in disbelief as he raised his spyglass. He expected to see a rogue beast horde. Instead, his lens filled with the bloodshot eyes and zealot expressions of his own civilian population.
"What in the heavens..." the officer muttered, "Hold your fire! Those are citizens! Those are laborers from the southern sectors!"
The commoners didn't stop. Driven by the primal heartbeat of Björn's dream, they surged out of the tree line like an unstoppable tide of meat and iron. They carried no siege engines, no elegant magical arrays, and no tactical formations. They held only their farming tools, hunting bows, and heavy blacksmith hammers, their bodies radiating a suffocating, feverish heat as the dormant blood rain boiled in their veins.
