The air was alive with fire and steel.
Arrows screamed through the sky, cutting trails of smoke as they fell upon the valley. The ground trembled beneath the weight of charging soldiers. The scent of blood and burnt earth mingled in the wind, thick enough to choke.
Isla moved through the chaos like a shadow made of purpose. Every swing of her blade was measured, precise, born of months spent preparing for this moment. Her cloak snapped behind her as she cut through the smoke, eyes burning with the cold fury of someone who had lost too much to turn back.
"Hold the line!" she shouted, parrying a strike and driving her sword through an armored chest. "Do not yield!"
Her soldiers rallied behind her cry, their faith anchored in the woman who refused to break. Yet beneath her voice, beneath the fury, there was something else — a tremor buried deep within. She had told herself this battle was necessary. That there was no other way.
