"Loose the arrows!"
Varros's shout rang across the open plains like a crack of thunder. The silence shattered.
Dozens of longbows sang in unison, their strings thrumming with deadly precision as a storm of barbed arrows soared through the air.
Behind them, formation mages in silver robes thrust their hands forward, inscribing tiered runes into the space before them with glowing fingers.
The symbols flared to life—flame, frost, and lightning surged, painting the battlefield in a mad kaleidoscope of light and power.
Arrows rained like death. Magic spells burst into explosions.
Balls of fire incinerated shrubs, frost lances shattered trees into frozen splinters, and streaks of lightning forked across the field, crawling and crackling with impossible heat.
The impact was cataclysmic. Dust exploded into the sky.
Bodies—those strange, humanoid shadows—were torn apart, flung like ragdolls across the torn earth. Bones shattered. Heads rolled. Limbs were blown off.
