Holding the Line
The Ebonreach Wilds lay shrouded in smoke and dusk. Arrows jutted from churned soil, and the cries of the wounded drifted across the field. The trampled grass was slick with mud and blood, littered with broken shields and splintered spears. A Legionnaire, his armor battered and scarred, scanned the treeline where Syndicate banners had just vanished. The horns of retreat echoed faintly, swallowed by the wind. This was no crushing triumph—only a hard-fought reprieve, one more day of resistance carved out of the enemy’s momentum. He spotted a comrade struggling to rise, one hand pressed against a bleeding shoulder. Striding over, he extended his arm and pulled the soldier to his feet. The younger man’s face was pale, but his eyes burned with the stubborn fire that marked the Legion’s ranks. They locked eyes but exchanged no words. A slight nod between the two was enough for them to understand the cost of the day and the greater cost that surrender would bring. They walked together toward ...