The first arrow flew at dawn on the seventh day.
A Gnoll scout — one of Harsk's forward observers — loosed a longbow shot at a Frogman patrol probing the second trench line's eastern edge. The arrow struck shield wood, skidded, and buried itself in the mud. No kill, no wound. But the first projectile launched with lethal intent across the invisible line between skirmish and war.
Seylith felt it through the divine substrate. Every god in range felt it — the ambient tremor of divine domains entering directected conflict, like the vibration of a struck bell heard through stone rather than air.
She was in her shrine. The same shrine where eight days ago she had spoken with the Grand Ordinator and a minotaur god and made a decision that would end one life and start another.
