Down the hill they came, not as a disciplined army, but as an avalanche of wrath. Warriors of the Duskwindai, their honor wounded and their pride sullied, charged like a herd of enraged bulls loosed from their pens.
Dust rose in a thick, choking plume around their feet, their boots pounding against the earth with such force that the very ground trembled beneath them. No formations. No order. Just roaring, spitting fury — a tidal wave of gleaming axes and low-slung shields.
They screamed like beasts, their throats raw with howls of vengeance, faces contorted with fury. Spittle flew from their mouths as their battle cries tore through the valley, not as the disciplined songs of warriors, but the guttural barks of men who felt their dignity crushed and now yearned to crush in return.
High above their heads, the sun glinted of their weapons.
But they didn't realize what they were charging into.
They didn't see the trap—only the bait.
