"Argh... shit."
A man stood at the edge of the settlement wall, the dry wind pulling at his coat. His boots crunched against the cracked stone as he stared out.
The Witherfangs moved like a tide of bone and rot—limbs too long, eyes like hollow lanterns. The ground seemed to rot beneath them as they came.
His jaw clenched. He didn't blink.
"Sir!"
A voice from behind. A soldier—her voice tight, shaking.
"What are we going to do?"
He didn't answer. His eyes stayed on the horde, mind racing.
'Why here? Why now? I should've been stationed anywhere else. I was only sent to Ebonreach to keep order, not to die. The last wave was smaller, tier 1s, 2s... and we barely made it through. I'm stage 3, not a damn god. There's no way I can fight this.'
"Sergeant Conan!"
He turned at last. The settlement behind them was already unraveling. Families scattered. Guards shouted, some not even holding weapons right.
Panic stank in the air.
He faced her.
