Sol stood atop a burning bone barricade, Dreadwing Blade dripping green blood, his silver-crimson eyes narrowed as he scanned the heart of the enemy settlement. The outer perimeter was already collapsing, thick black smoke curled into the sky, screams and the clash of weapons filled the air.
But the center remained eerily quiet.
No roar of elite guards charging out. No overwhelming spiritual pressure exploding from the command tents. No sign of the Zerith Chief or their High Shaman.
"Where the hell are their leaders?" Sol muttered in a low voice.
Zeyra appeared at his side, breathing slightly hard, her dual blades coated in fresh enemy blood and a savage, obsessive light burned in her eyes as she looked at him.
"They should have reacted by now," she said, voice low. "A Chief and High Shaman… they wouldn't just sit there while their camp burns."
