The revenants struck like a tide unleashed.
They surged out of the plaza's black water in a rush of spray and iron, skeletal frames bound in plates of barnacle-eaten armor. Rusted helms clung to half-shattered skulls, and weapons long-fused to bone swung with unnatural weight. Salt hissed where rain struck them, their hollow eyes burning with faint green fire, every gaze fixed not on Leo or Owen, but on the shard glowing in the statue's chest.
The storm above raged in sympathy, lightning splitting the heavens, thunder shaking the island to its bones.
The first revenant lunged with a spear, its thrust clean and merciless, the motion of a soldier drilled in life and perfected in death. Leo caught the gleam of rust an instant before impact. He pivoted, his blade flashing in a rain-slick arc. Steel rang against corroded metal. The revenant's arm tore free, spraying not blood but brine and smoke. The wound hissed like an open furnace, yet the creature did not falter.
