The line broke.
Not all at once. Not cleanly. It splintered—sections collapsing under pressure, bodies dragged screaming into the mass while others held just long enough to watch it happen. The barricade of corpses buckled inward as a cluster of Wraiths slammed into it from one side, their claws tearing through flesh that had already been torn apart.
Nero planted his foot hard against a ribcage jutting from the ground and drove his spear forward.
The tip punched through a Wraith's throat, the impact jarring up his arms as the creature convulsed violently. He ripped the weapon free and pivoted, but the gap was already widening.
They were being overrun.
"Hold the line!"
The voice cut through the chaos.
Nero's eyes snapped toward it.
Two figures stood at the collapsing front.
Nobles.
It was obvious.
Not because of their armor alone—though it was unmistakable, etched with faint, controlled runic patterns that pulsed with restrained power—but because of how they moved.
