The storm howled around them, a living, screaming thing as the creatures surged forward in waves. Their hollow eyes gleamed with unnatural hunger, their jagged claws swiping through the air, eager for flesh. The cold was no longer just the storm, it was the presence of the dead, seeping into bone, dragging at breath, at movement. The battle was no longer about survival. It was about dominance. Either they controlled the battlefield, or the darkness swallowed them whole.
Someone has summoned these creatures to stop us from reaching the dragon.
Markos' heart pounded, every muscle taut with tension. He could feel the weight of every breath, the icy burn of the wind slicing through his armor. The air crackled with magic, the scent of charred flesh and frost mingling, thick and metallic. There was no time for hesitation. No room for error. Every second counted, every decision teetering on the edge of life and death.
