The wind, a harbinger of ill tidings, whipped across the battlements, carrying with it the chilling echo of an unspoken fear. Aedan, his hand a tight fist around his sword hilt, stared out at the darkened expanse beyond the walls. The orcish horde had been held at bay, but the lull was more ominous than reassuring. The whispered word, passed down through the ranks like a curse, hung heavy in the air: the archers were gone.
The archers, powerful beings of magic and archery, had arrived with the night, their arrows imbued with powerful spells that had kept the demonic forces at bay. Their sudden disappearance, was a wound ripped into their already wavering hope.
"What do we do?" muttered a young soldier, his face pale with fear, "They have withdrawn from the fight Our loved ones, who will protect them now."
Aedan placed a hand on the young man's shoulder, his own throat tight with unspoken anxieties.
