Lyan stood on the city wall, his sharp eyes cutting through the chaos below. Fires roared, casting long shadows that flickered across the cobblestone streets. Screams and shouts of confusion filled the air, mingling with the distant sound of steel clashing. Smoke billowed into the dark sky, painting it with hues of orange and black. This was the chaos he had orchestrated—every fire, every panicked cry a testament to his team's precision.
He adjusted his grip on the glaive resting against his shoulder, its weight familiar and reassuring. Below, his Shadow Servants moved like specters, blending seamlessly into the dark. They struck with surgical precision, their blades and claws ripping through the guards who dared to organize resistance. At the barracks, flames licked at the wooden structure, devouring it in a fiery blaze. The barracks had been key; without them, reinforcements would be disorganized at best.
(The barracks are gone,)
