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. Not a kill. Not a 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.
