The sea hissed like a living wound, spray lashing the shore where broken barricades clung stubbornly to their posts. The palisades were cracked, splintered, half-swallowed by the tide, yet still they stood a mirror of the guardians themselves.
Salt stung the air. Smoke from ruined homes curled above the village, braided with the tang of brine and blood. The horizon seethed, waves rising and falling in rhythms too precise to be nature's alone, as though the sea itself had become a war drum.
Khael stood at the forward line, blade drawn, his shoulders squared though fatigue weighed on him. His breathing was steady, forced steady, because weakness had no place here. His dragon instinct stirred deep inside, whispering truths he didn't want to hear, the threat is not over, the tide is not done, Thal'ryx's shadow has not lifted.
Captain Roan limped closer, blood streaking his cheek, his armor cracked but his back unbowed. The man's voice was rough, frayed, but still firm.
