The clash of bodies had long lost any semblance of battle and had turned into a blood-soaked melee — a grotesque theater of groans, screams, and steel biting into flesh. The ground beneath the fighters had become slick with blood, not just splattered but pooled in shallow depressions, turning every step into a risk of slipping — and many did, falling not to blades, but to trampling boots and hammering feet.
The Chorsi line, made of boys who longed to be men, was faltering. Their breathing was ragged, their swings wild, desperate. Many gripped their weapons like clubs now — chipped spears, notched axes. They fought with a defiance born more of fear than pride.
But their fear could not stop the Duskwindai.
