(Villagers' Perspective)
The horn's blare shattered Ashgrove's peace. From the northern road, torches lit the horizon, marching steadily toward the gates. The Hunters of the Order were coming.
At first, fear spread — mothers clutching children, men looking at one another in silence. But then Elder Ryn lifted his staff, his voice cutting through the panic.
"Hold your ground! Ashgrove is no den of cowards. Tonight, we protect our own."
The villagers roared in agreement. But among them stood three who were stronger than most, their presence alone enough to steady frightened hearts:
Borin Ironhand, the old blacksmith, still broad-shouldered and carrying his forge hammer as if it weighed nothing.
Eira Ashenvale, the huntress, tall and fierce, with a bow strung tighter than any in the valley.
Thalos the Miller, once a soldier before he settled in Ashgrove, who now hefted a battle axe hidden away since younger days.
Together, they stepped forward as the vanguard.
---
The Hunters arrived, armored and cold-eyed. Their captain raised a sword.
"Hand over the cursed serpent girl and her blind companion. Stand aside and live."
Borin spat into the dirt. "This is Ashgrove. We don't trade guests for blood."
The captain sneered. "Then you'll burn with her."
With a sharp motion, the hunters charged.
---
The square exploded into battle. Villagers with pitchforks and torches clashed with armored killers. The hunters were disciplined, but Ashgrove fought with rage — the rage of farmers defending children, of mothers defending hearths.
Borin swung his hammer with terrifying force, breaking a hunter's shield in half. "Come on then, dogs! Let's see what iron feels like!" he roared, his blows shaking the cobblestones.
Eira stood atop a wagon, loosing arrow after arrow. Each shaft found its mark — a throat, a joint, a weak spot in armor. Her hawk's eyes missed nothing. "Keep them back! Don't let them through!"
Thalos waded into the fray like a storm, his axe flashing in great arcs. He moved with the precision of a soldier long-trained, cutting down two hunters at once before shoving another into a burning torch. "Ashgrove stands!" he cried, his voice carrying above the clash of steel.
---
The hunters pressed harder, their numbers overwhelming, but the villagers refused to break. Even the children joined — banging pots, throwing stones, distracting enemies long enough for the fighters to strike.
From the corner of his eye, Borin saw Seraphina and Dorian being pulled toward the southern gate by the innkeeper's boys. His chest clenched with pride. "Good. Get her clear. We'll buy the time."
Eira's bowstring snapped. Without hesitation, she grabbed a fallen spear, jabbing fiercely as hunters tried to climb her wagon. "Not today!" she spat, driving them back.
Thalos was surrounded by three at once, their blades ringing off his axe. He gritted his teeth, sweat streaking his brow. One blade slipped past, cutting into his arm — but instead of falling, he bellowed and headbutted the attacker so hard the man dropped like a stone.
"Thalos!" Borin shouted.
"I'm not done yet!" the miller snarled, swinging again with bloodied strength.
---
The hunters, frustrated by the resistance, set fire to the edges of the village. Flames licked at rooftops. Screams filled the air. Still, Ashgrove would not yield.
Elder Ryn, though frail, stood beside them, chanting prayers, striking his staff against the ground. "Ashgrove is not yours! This soil belongs to the free!"
An arrow flew toward him — but Eira caught it mid-flight with her bare hand, the shaft grazing her palm. Her teeth bared in fury. "You'll not touch him." She snapped the arrow and charged into the fray with the spear.
Borin's hammer smashed down again, breaking bones, scattering enemies. He glanced toward the south. The cart was gone. Seraphina and Dorian were safe. Relief flooded him.
"To the last breath!" he roared.
"To the last breath!" the villagers echoed.
---
The battle raged until the night itself seemed to burn. The three warriors fought like legends: Borin's hammer ringing like thunder, Eira's spear darting like lightning, Thalos's axe cleaving like the storm's wind. Around them, Ashgrove bled but did not break.
Even as the hunters pressed forward, even as homes burned, the villagers fought on with one truth burning brighter than fear:
They would not give her up.
---
By dawn, Ashgrove smoldered, but the hunters had been driven back, many dead, others retreating with curses on their lips. The villagers were battered, bloodied, but alive.
Borin stood in the square, leaning heavily on his hammer. His face was ash-streaked, his beard singed. "She's gone," he said quietly, a strange smile tugging his lips. "Safe."
Eira bound her bleeding hand, her eyes shining with exhaustion and pride. "Then it was worth it."
Thalos dropped to one knee, his axe embedded in the earth. "Ashgrove will rebuild. We always do."
And so, in the smoking ruins of the village, they stood — not as victims, but as guardians who had written their defiance in blood.
The hunters had not expected resistance. But they had learned one truth too late:
Ashgrove protected its own.