Skel'var fought like a demon possessed by the ghosts of three hundred dead soldiers.
His blade work was precise, economical, each strike aimed at joints and gaps. No wasted movement. No excess. Just the cold mathematics of a commander who'd learned that every second of combat had a cost, and efficiency was survival.
A paladin raised holy fire, attempting to create light, to illuminate the chaos, to give his brothers fighting chance.
Zara's thrown knife took him through the eye.
The body fell. The holy fire died. The darkness rushed back in.
The camp had become an abattoir.
Paladins who'd been sleeping died in their bedrolls. Paladins who'd been eating died with food still in their hands. Paladins who'd been maintaining equipment died before they could draw weapons.
Not all of them. Not even most.
But enough that the camp's carefully maintained order collapsed into desperate, disorganized survival.
