Steel clanged, boots slammed against the earth, and the air thrummed with tension and war cries.
Chaos had erupted.
From the shelter of the dense trees, a group of six had lunged into the caravan's path, catching the knights off guard just moments after they'd finished clearing the fallen logs. Though small in number, these men—mercenaries of the Association of Schadenfreude—fought with a tenacity that made them more than mere nuisances. With only daggers in their hands and madness in their eyes, they tore into the camp like shadows with blades.
They had no armour. No banners. No sense of self-preservation. Yet every strike they threw was calculated, practised, and aimed at weak spots in the knights' defences. For a moment, it seemed less like a skirmish and more like a dance—evasive, fluid, deadly.
