The attack did not announce itself.
There was no horn. No warning cry. No shared moment of realization between those who were about to die.
One heartbeat, the Ritefield of Beasts was alive with music—drums beating in uneven rhythm, voices raised in drunken song, cups lifted high as firelight danced across fur and stone.
The next—
Laughter shattered.
Sylvanel fighters crashed into the celebration like a falling blade. Skills activated at point-blank range, without mercy, without delay. Steel pierced flesh before screams could fully form. A sword thrust driven by a physical enhancement skill punched cleanly through an unarmored back, the force enough to lift the body off the ground before discarding it.
