The first horn blast faded into silence. Then the world erupted.
The Flameborn army poured into the Hollow Glen like a black tide, their torches flickering with crimson fire, their wolves howling in unison. The ground shook beneath their march, the air thick with the stench of smoke and bloodlust.
From the ridges, Blackthorn archers loosed their first volley. A storm of black-fletched arrows darkened the sky, raining death upon the front ranks. Wolves yelped as they fell, soldiers screamed as shafts pierced their armor. For a moment, the momentum of the Flameborn charge faltered.
Then their own fire answered. Bolts of flame arced upward, tearing through the night like meteors. Where they struck, the ridges exploded in showers of stone and splintered wood. Wolves tumbled from their perches, bodies crushed beneath the chaos.
