Below, in the tunnels where light was nothing but memory, the civilians huddled. Mothers pressed cloth to children's mouths to stifle their sobs. The walls dripped, damp with seeping water, reeking of mildew. The air was heavy with sweat and fear.
An old priest knelt in the center, lips moving in prayer, but the words broke before leaving his mouth. His gods had been silent since the first city burned.
Above, the ground shuddered. Screams bled down through stone.
"Is it the demons?" a boy whispered, clutching his father's sleeve.
The man did not answer. His eyes were wide, unblinking, staring upward where dust sifted from the ceiling.
Another crash. Closer. The ceiling cracked.
The boy began to cry.
⸻
Veynar's men broke.
One by one, shields fell. Swords slipped from blood-slick hands. The line shattered. The mutants poured through.
