Messengers sprinted between the council leaders, faces pale, shouting half-coherent reports:
"The north gate—breached!"
"Supplies burning—!"
"They're in the barracks—!"
Everywhere at once, the mutants struck. The defenders were outnumbered five to one, and for every creature cut down, two more seemed to claw out of the darkness.
And somewhere beyond the chaos, unseen yet felt, pulsed a greater presence. A rhythm of corruption, like a heartbeat too vast to belong to any single creature. Something was guiding them. Something was watching.
—
At last, Faylen's voice broke through the chaos:
"We cannot hold. We must retreat. Take who we can and fall back to the western ridges. If we delay longer, we lose everyone."
"You would doom the rest," Thariel spat.
"I would save those we can."
The council fractured further, half shouting to hold, half screaming to flee. In the end, their words meant nothing.
Because the walls were falling.
Because the camp was already lost.
