Veylara's voice faded into the damp silence, met by no reply.
Below them, the Zerith settlement squatted in the marsh like a wounded animal that had dragged itself into the deepest part of its den.
The ironwood palisades were dark with moisture and age, the thorn-vine barriers coiling along the base like living tripwires.
On the ramparts, dozens of archers had already nocked their venom-tipped arrows. Below the gate, thirty heavy spearmen in cured hide cuirasses stood knee-deep in the murky shallows, broad wicker shields locked, spears leveled in a defensive wall.
They had the look of people who knew they could not win a true battle… and had decided to make the price of entry as ugly as possible.
Sol stood a half-step behind Veylara, crimson eyes moving slowly across the defenses. He noted the sinkholes Thauren had mentioned, the way the mud glistened in uneven patches, and the deliberate gaps in the thorn barriers that were almost certainly kill zones.
