The world seemed to hold its breath.
The moment the chieftain barked the order, every archer on the walls loosed in unison. Arrows blackened the sky, a rain of steel tips descending toward the golden figure at the gate.
Beatriz moved.
Not with frantic dodges or clumsy scrambles, but with deliberate, flowing shifts—each step, each tilt of her head, each half-inch sway carrying her body into the one place every arrow would miss. Shafts hissed past her faceplate, skimmed over her shoulders, splintered into the dirt where she had stood an instant before. The attacks would never pierce her—but she refused to let them touch her at all.
She was already advancing.
The spear unhooked from her back in one smooth motion, its pale yellow blade catching the light like a shard of dawn. It extended mid-swing—five feet to seven, then to ten—slashing upward through the nearest battlement.
The first goblin didn't fall; he exploded—a spray of shredded sinew and shattered bone painting the planks behind him. Before the corpse hit the ground, the spear snapped back to normal length, and she was gone again.
She reappeared on the opposite wall.
A shaman raised his staff, green fire sputtering from its tip—only for Beatriz's spear to punch through his open mouth and out the back of his skull, the force lifting him from his feet and pinning him to the parapet before she flicked him free.
Archers tried to retreat down the ladders. She didn't give them the chance. Every strike was an execution—throats punctured, spines severed, heads removed in clean arcs. The spear danced with her, retracting and extending at will, skewering three goblins in a line before snapping sideways to behead another.
In less than thirty seconds, the walls were silent save for the wind.
The chieftain roared below, hurling a crackling bolt of red lightning toward her. She stepped sideways, letting it burn harmlessly past her hip, her gaze never shifting from the next cluster of targets.
Then she dropped from the wall.
The ground buckled under the impact, dust blooming around her as goblins on the ground scrambled to scatter. She didn't chase—they were already dead. One step forward, and her spear extended again, slicing in a single, perfect horizontal arc.
Half a dozen goblins fell in two pieces, their torsos still standing for a heartbeat before gravity claimed them. Another backward sweep took the legs from a fleeing knot of them, sending them screaming into the dirt before her spear punched down in rapid, merciless thrusts to end them.
The cages lay ahead now—timbers shaking as the captives watched in wide-eyed horror.
Four goblin guards raised spears. They didn't even see her move.
One strike.
The golden blade swept in an upward crescent, severing all four from the waist up while continuing through the crude wooden fronts of the cages. Splinters flew like shrapnel, and the sheer force of the blow blasted the captives backward into the far bars.
Hot blood rained across them.
Some gagged, some screamed, others simply froze—faces slick with gore, blinking against the crimson that blinded them.
For a moment, not one of them thought she had come to save them. They saw only a figure of death, a force that might crush them next by accident or whim.
Captain Darran's pulse slammed in his ears. The ropes gave way under a violent twist, skin tearing at the wrists. He surged to his feet, grabbing the nearest soldier and shoving him toward the breach.
"Move! OUT! We're not staying to see what that thing does next!"
They stumbled in a rush, panic overriding exhaustion. Some slipped in the blood pooling underfoot. Darran hauled them up, voice hoarse as he barked orders.
Behind them, Beatriz did not look their way once.
The goblins were still screaming. She was still moving—calm, precise, unrelenting. Her silhouette shimmered with gold-veined light, her white blouse immaculate save for the specks of blood steaming against its surface.
The spear sang through the air again, and another dozen goblins fell apart in neat, wet pieces.
The massacre was far from over.