Robert's eyes burnt as he watched his father stagger under Billy Walker's sudden strike. Blood trailed from John Osborn's mouth, scarlet against the pale of his beard. The sight hollowed something inside Robert.
His fingers clenched tighter around his dual swords until the leather wrappings cut into his palms. Rage, bitter and sharp, flooded through him.
For the first time, he understood true helplessness. His father—the pillar of their clan, the man who never once bent his back to any foe—had been forced to his knees.
And above them floated the smiling enemy of their ruin.
Billy Walker's aura rippled across the battlefield, suffocating, oppressive, and drowning the forest in shadow. Warriors below faltered mid-strike, both James and Osborn alike staring upward at the intruder. His voice, calm and cold, sliced through the air:
"You have wasted my time. Today, the Osborns will vanish. Not one of you will leave these forests alive."
