The compound smelled of smoke, sweat, and fear.
The gates had not yet fallen, but every strike against them boomed like thunder inside Shunya's skull. The timbers bent with each impact, moaning in protest. He could almost see the moment they would snap apart.
Naomi stood rigid at the front, blade gleaming faintly in the torchlight. Her stance had not wavered, but her breathing had deepened. Her movements were sharp, yes, but no longer effortless. Each swing carried the weight of grit rather than the flow of mastery.
She would never admit it aloud. But Shunya could see it.
Vikoria sat against a cart wheel, staff leaning beside her. Her hands still glowed faintly, but the light was more flicker than flame. She had pushed too far keeping the barrier up, and now her eyelids sagged as though the very air pressed her down. Still, her lips moved in soft whispers of minor spells— tricks to slow, to stumble, to distract. Small acts of defiance against the tide.
