The carriage hurtled toward the gates, its wheels kicking up plumes of snow as the monstrous horde closed in behind it.
On the walls, guards scrambled into position—archers nocking arrows, channelers summoning flickering energy between their palms. The captain, a broad-shouldered woman with a scar running down her cheek, barked orders as she climbed the watchtower steps.
The younger guard—no, the impostor—watched it all with detached calm.
This wasn't supposed to happen yet.
His fingers twitched at his side. The attack was early and uncoordinated. The beasts should have waited for his order, not charged ahead like mindless animals.
His gaze flicked across the defenders.
The town's guards were disciplined, but they lacked real power. A few channelers, a handful of resonators. Enough to hold off the lesser monsters, but that ice-clad bear leading the charge—Frostfang—would tear through them without issue.
Should I move now?
