# Chapter 341: The Horns of War
The sound was not a thing of brass or breath. It was a violation.
It began as a low, guttural hum, a vibration that seemed to rise not from the ridge but from the very bedrock of the valley. It climbed the scale, a discordant, grinding note that set teeth on edge and made the air itself feel thick and heavy. Then it split into a dual-toned blast, a sound that was both a shriek and a roar, a physical pressure that hammered against the chest and stole the breath. It was the sound of a world being torn in half. In the hastily fortified village of Greenfield, every head snapped up. The diggers dropped their shovels. The archivers fumbled their arrows. The sound of the war horns echoed off the valley walls, a deafening, unnatural proclamation that vibrated in the bones of every soldier in Soren's army. The moment of waiting was over.
Soren stood atop the largest remaining structure in Greenfield, the roof of a collapsed granary, his knuckles white where he gripped the hilt of his knife. The sound washed over him, a wave of pure malice. He could feel it in the hollow of his chest, a sickening resonance that spoke of immense power and cold, calculated cruelty. Beside him, Nyra's face was pale, her eyes wide as she scanned the ridgeline with a pair of field glasses.
"They're coming," she said, her voice tight. The words were unnecessary. Everyone knew.
From every shadowed crevice and hidden fold in the surrounding hills, they emerged. It was not a charge; it was an unveiling. First came the legions, rows of Synod infantry in their polished, obsidian-black armor, moving with a disciplined, inexorable rhythm that was terrifying in its silence. They flowed down the slopes like a tide of oil, their shields locked, their spears a forest of glistening points. But it was the machines that drew the eye, the true architects of this symphony of destruction.
They were hulking, multi-legged constructs of iron and crystal, moving with an unnerving, spider-like grace. They were the Resonance Cannons, the Synod's ultimate anti-Gifted weapon. Dozens of them descended into the valley, their crystal cores glowing with a malevolent, pulsating violet light. A low, collective hum emanated from them, a sound that merged with the fading echo of the horns to create a constant, oppressive drone. The air grew thick, heavy, tasting of ozone and static. It was the feeling before a lightning strike, magnified a thousand times.
"Soren," Nyra said, her voice dropping to a whisper of dread. "Something's wrong."
He felt it too. A deep, instinctual wrongness. It was a pressure on his mind, a cold hand closing around the source of his power, the void-wound in his chest. It wasn't just him. A cry went up from the western barricade, a Gifted brawler who could harden his skin to stone suddenly clutching his head as his flesh softened, reverting to its vulnerable state. Another scream, this one from a woman whose Gift was to conjure wisps of fire; the flames sputtered and died in her hands, leaving her staring at her empty palms in disbelief.
Panic, cold and sharp, began to ripple through the ranks. The Gifted were their shock troops, their champions, their living artillery. To have them neutralized without a single blow being struck was a psychological blow far more devastating than any physical attack.
The hum from the Resonance Cannons intensified, climbing to a piercing whine. The violet light in their cores brightened, flaring with power. Soren saw it all in a horrifying, crystalline moment of clarity. This was the trap. Not the village, not the terrain. The trap was the very air they breathed.
"Take cover!" he roared, his voice swallowed by the rising drone.
It was too late.
The cannons fired. There was no explosion of flame and smoke. Instead, a wave of shimmering, translucent energy, visible only in the way it distorted the air, blasted out from each machine. The waves converged, washing over the village and its defenses. The sound was immense, a thunderous crack that shattered stone and splintered wood. The newly erected barricades, built with sweat and desperation, disintegrated into showers of splinters and pulverized earth. The concussive force lifted men from their feet and hurled them through the air like rag dolls.
Soren was thrown from the granary roof. He hit the ground hard, the impact driving the air from his lungs in a pained gasp. Dust and debris rained down, choking him. He pushed himself up, his ears ringing, the world a maelstrom of chaos. Soldiers were screaming, running in disarray. The neat defensive lines they had so carefully prepared were gone, replaced by a panicked mob. The Synod infantry, now at the edge of the village, began their advance, their steady, silent march a stark contrast to the pandemonium they had wrought.
He saw a Gifted fighter, a man who could move like the wind, stumble and fall as his power failed him. A Synod spearman calmly stepped forward and ran him through without breaking stride. Another Gifted, a shielder, cried out as his barrier of solid light flickered and vanished a second before a volley of crossbow bolts slammed into his chest. The nullifying field was absolute. It was a slaughter.
Despair, cold and suffocating, began to creep in. They were blind, deaf, and mute in the language of war. They were just men now, fragile and breakable, facing a perfectly engineered killing machine.
Soren's gaze fell upon his own hands. He could still feel the faint, cold echo of the void-wound, but the oppressive pressure of the nullifying field was crushing it, smothering it. He was as helpless as the rest. He saw Kaelen's face in his mind's eye, the serene, terrible purpose. This was his masterpiece. This was how he would break them.
Then his eyes caught the glint of metal on his wrists. Grak's bracers. The dwarven blacksmith had called them a desperate gamble, a prototype designed to resonate with a specific frequency, a shield against the nullifying wave. He'd called it a fool's hope.
Hope was all they had left.
With a trembling hand, Soren fumbled with the activation rune etched into the left bracer. It was a complex sequence, one Grak had made him practice until his fingers were raw. The world around him was a blur of violence and death. A Synod soldier was almost upon him, his spear raised for the kill. Nyra was there, a dagger in each hand, trying to hold him off, but she was a fighter, not a brawler, and the soldier's armor was too thick.
Soren's thumb found the rune. He pressed it.
For a heartbeat, nothing happened. The spearman lunged. Nyra dodged, parrying, her face a mask of desperate concentration.
Then, a surge of energy, not from the void-wound but from the bracers themselves, erupted up Soren's arm. It was a violent, painful jolt, like sticking his hand in a nest of fire ants. A shimmering shield of pale blue energy flared to life around him, a dome barely three paces in diameter. The spearman's thrust slammed into it, the tip of his weapon glancing off with a screech of tortured metal and a shower of sparks. The soldier stared, dumbfounded.
The shield hummed, a counter-frequency to the oppressive drone of the cannons. Inside its radius, Soren could breathe again. The pressure on his mind vanished. He could feel the void-wound stir, a slumbering beast prodded awake.
He scrambled to his feet, the shield moving with him. He saw the shock on the faces of the soldiers nearby, the flicker of something other than despair in their eyes. It was a tiny spark, but it was there.
He looked at the advancing tide of black armor, at the hulking forms of the cannons continuing their relentless bombardment. He looked at his people, broken and scattered, waiting for the end.
The Cinder Cost of the bracers was immediate and severe. He could feel it, a draining pull on his very life force, a thousand tiny needles pricking his soul. But it was a price he could pay.
He drew himself up to his full height, the blue light of the shield casting long, dancing shadows across his grim face. He took a deep breath, filling his lungs with the taste of ozone and battle. He raised his voice, a raw, ragged roar that tore from the depths of his being, amplified by the energy crackling around him.
"To me! The Unchained will not fall today!"