A chill crawled up his spine. Normally, beasts would hesitate when faced with overwhelming casualties, instinct driving them to retreat—but these? They kept coming.
Below, the veteran hunter let out a guttural grunt as he split another creature in half, his axe slick with gore. "Something's wrong!" he bellowed, shoving a corpse aside. "They're not fighting like wild beasts—this is a command! A force is driving them!"
James didn't respond, but the realization sank deep. Controlled. Forced. Driven by something unseen.
A fresh wave of creatures surged forward, not with desperation—but with eerie precision, their movements unnaturally synchronized. The runes along the wall flared violently, repelling another attacker with a blast of energy, but they were fading—the magic straining under the endless assault.
Then, among the chaos, James saw it.
A silhouette—a shadow lingering in the distance beyond the treeline. Watching.
He narrowed his eyes. Was that the orchestrator?
The battlefield churned with chaos, but as James loosed another arrow, something subtle—something wrong—pricked at his senses.
A faint scent drifted through the air, barely noticeable beneath the heavy musk of sweat and blood. But it was there, weaving between the madness, threading through the night like a whisper.
His breath hitched. He knew that scent.
It was an herbal mixture—one he had studied during his weeks in the forest hut, that every plant, every leaf had a purpose. Some healed. Some poisoned. Some… controlled.
James narrowed his eyes. This wasn't natural. It wasn't the stench of the beasts or the damp decay of the woods—it was incense.
And he knew exactly what it was capable of.
A combination of herbs, when burned in precise measure, could cloud a creature's senses, dull its instincts, make it obedient. Used correctly, it intoxicated beasts into a near trance-like state.
James stiffened. That was why they weren't hesitating. That was why they kept charging, despite death, despite pain.
Someone—some force—was controlling them.
His gaze flicked toward the treeline , to the shadowed figure still watching.
James steadied his breath, loosing another arrow toward the incoming beasts. The battle raged below, the city walls bracing against the relentless charge—but as the creatures threw themselves forward, the ancient runes etched into the stone flared to life.
A pulse of golden light surged along the barricades, spidering through the intricate carvings, radiating outwards like a protective shield. The moment the first beast clawed against the stone, the runes reacted, unleashing a sudden burst of force that sent the attacker sprawling backward.
James watched as more creatures lunged—only to be met by the same defensive barrier, thrown back by magical repulsion. The scent in the air still lingered, the subtle intoxication keeping them moving despite their injuries, despite their losses.
Yet even as the runes repelled them, they did not hesitate.
James flicked his gaze toward the treeline—toward the shadowed figure, watching, calculating. Was it adjusting its strategy? Had it expected the runes?
Another beast slammed into the wall, and the runes flared again, but this time… slightly dimmer.
James's stomach tightened. The magic was weakening.
And whoever controlled the creatures—they knew it.
The battle dragged on, a relentless **storm of blood and steel**, the defenders fighting tooth and nail against the seemingly endless tide. The runes on the walls **flared again**, repelling another monstrous beast—but their glow was fading, flickering **like a dying flame**.
James loosed another arrow, striking a creature mid-leap, sending it **crashing** to the ground below. But even as he kept firing, his gaze flickered across the battlefield—**the first signs of true casualties had begun to appear.**
Below, a young fighter—barely more than a recruit—collapsed, his sword clattering from his grasp as a beast's claws tore into him. A nearby warrior **lunged forward**, cutting down the creature before it could strike again, but **it was too late**—the recruit lay unmoving, blood pooling beneath him.
Further along the line, an archer beside James let out a sharp cry—his bowstring snapped, and before he could react, a stray projectile **pierced his shoulder**, knocking him back against the barricades.
The defenders were holding. Barely.**
James clenched his jaw, forcing himself to stay focused. He spotted another beast scaling the weakened wall, claws scraping against stone. Arrow. Release. Impact. The creature tumbled backward, but more were already taking its place.
The veteran hunter below let out a furious roar, his axe carving through enemies with brute force. Yet even he was slowing, his movements growing heavier, blood dripping from fresh wounds across his armor.
And as the casualties mounted, James realized something chilling that at this rate they will be worn down to nothing.
James loosed another arrow, his breath controlled but his thoughts fractured. The battle was spiraling—casualties mounting, the beasts unnaturally relentless, the protective runes flickering like dying embers.
He stole another glance toward the treeline, toward the shadowed figure that hadn't moved, hadn't spoken—only watched.
This wasn't just a siege. It was a slow execution.
James clenched his jaw, forcing himself to keep firing. But beneath the instinct to fight, another thought uncoiled in his mind—cold, practical, unavoidable.
What if things go south? Should he escape?
The city had defenses, warriors, a chance to hold. But the creatures weren't fighting with instinct, they were being controlled, and whoever was behind it had patience.
What if their true goal wasn't to break the walls today—but to wear them down until they had nothing left?
His grip tightened on his bow. Could he afford to die here?
Could he afford to leave?
The scent of herbs, intoxicating yet subtle, still lingered in the air—proof of manipulation. Proof that someone had planned this far ahead.
James exhaled sharply, pushing the thought aside. Not yet.
He wasn't running. Not yet.
The battle had descended into something far worse than expected—an endless tide of beasts surging against the city walls, driven by a force unseen but undeniably calculating. The runes flickered dangerously, their protective glow weakening, and despite their best efforts, exhaustion was taking hold.
James loosed another arrow, but his fingers were trembling. Below, warriors struggled to hold their formations, bodies littering the blood-soaked ground. The sheer relentlessness of the attack was becoming overwhelming, and a terrible realization began settling among the defenders.
They might not last much longer.
Then, the distress signal went up—a flare, burning bright against the night sky. A desperate call for help.
Minutes passed. Then more. Too long.
James scanned the treeline again, eyes locking on the shadowed figure—watching, waiting. And then, finally, from beyond the horizon—a thunderous sound of hoofbeats, the glint of steel in the torchlight—
Reinforcements.
The defenders gasped in relief, shouts of hope rising through the ranks, but as the reinforcements surged forward, a grim truth surfaced—they were late.
James overheard the frantic words exchanged between the commanders—they had been blocked on the road, ambushed, delayed by unknown forces. Someone—some group—had wanted them to not make it at all.
The shadowed figure stirred. Visibly restless.
James narrowed his eyes. It knew. It had counted on complete annihilation before help could arrive—but now? The plan was collapsing.
Then, without warning, the figure turned sharply—moving.
James stiffened, watching as the reinforcements—trained hunters, seasoned warriors—sensed it too.
The leader among them barked a command—"Leave the beasts! Experts, on me! We take the one controlling them!"
A group broke away, chasing after the fleeing silhouette.
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