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The Eastern lines staggered beneath the combined assault. The North pressed forward with relentless force, their endurance-tested bodies shrugging off fatigue, injury and silver-laced wounds, while the South pressed from the flanks with unyielding ferocity.
The West moved as an unpredictable storm, breaking the last coherent formations of the Obsidian Claw.
Every step was soaked in blood with wolves screaming and snarling all around, their teeth flashing in the pale moonlight. Bodies collided in the dark, claws raked acrosarmouror and flesh alike, and the air reeked of iron and burned magic. The Void Moon still hung above, a dark crescent leeching strength off those that were still affected by it, pressing down on lungs and bones alike.
Yet the East did not yield. Not without every last drop of their blood being spilled.
