The desert wind howled, kicking up sheets of sand that bit at exposed skin. The air itself shimmered with heat, and the cultists' chants seemed to echo unnaturally through the dunes as they closed in around Aiden's team of five.
"Fifty of them," Aiden muttered, eyes narrowing as his grip tightened on the hilt of his glowing sword. The blade thrummed with power, veins of radiant light tracing its length like molten fire. "Perfect."
With a surge of movement, he charged. The sword carved arcs of brilliance through the sandstorm, every swing cleaving through cultist flesh and darkened armor as if they were paper. Each cut sent flashes of light dancing across the battlefield, burning away shadows as screams rang out.
