The rain hammered down, transforming the village square into a muddy morass. It mirrored the tempest in my own heart - a relentless mix of adrenaline-fueled resolve and a gnawing fear that dug its claws deep.
Sleep was a fleeting luxury in the nights that followed. We reinforced our defenses, sharpened crude weapons, and rehearsed our plans until the movements were etched into our very bones. The rain ceased, replaced by an oppressive stillness that settled over the land, a final breath held before the storm's fury.
Then, like a nightmare made reality, they came.
The first wave was a horde of snarling goblins, smaller than the orcs, but driven by a bloodthirsty savagery. They descended upon Havenwood with the force of an avalanche, their chittering cries shattering the pre-dawn silence.
Arrows hissed from our hastily constructed watchtowers, finding their marks. Barricades buckled under the onslaught, but held firm, the villagers defending them with desperate courage. Garek, to his credit, was a whirlwind of destruction, his oversized hammer shattering shields and scattering the smaller creatures like broken dolls.
It was within this chaos that our true training was tested. I surged into the fray, my fists blazing with barely contained magic. Fire lashed out, forcing a wedge in the relentless tide. Beside me, Lyra was a blur of motion, vines whipping forth to ensnare foes, yanking goblins from their feet with surprising strength. Illusionary warriors shimmered into existence at our flanks, courtesy of Mira, buying us precious seconds.
The goblin ranks seemed endless. For every one felled, two more scrambled to take its place. I felt a scream building in my throat, a raw release of the pressure that squeezed the very air from my lungs. I channeled that desperate fury, my movements becoming a dance of burning destruction, a flickering beacon amidst the carnage.
Their sheer numbers threatened to overwhelm us. I caught a glimpse of Garek falling back, his hulking form buried beneath a tide of snarling green flesh. A surge of panic twisted through me.
Suddenly, a horn blast echoed across the battlefield, a clear, piercing note that cut through the chaos. It was followed by a war cry that set my blood thrumming – not with fear, but a primal thrill that drowned out all rational thought.
The Alvari had arrived.
Clad in shimmering leaf armor, they flowed around our flagging defenses like a living tide. Their swords, thin and elegant, flashed like silver lightning. Every strike was precise, lethal, carving a bloody path through the goblin ranks.
Sylara was at the forefront, a whirlwind of steel and grace. For a dizzying moment, I forgot the battle raging around me, my eyes drawn to her. There was artistry in her violence, a lethal beauty that was strangely captivating.
Her golden eyes found mine across the battlefield. A nod, the briefest of gestures, jolted me back into the fight. We were a storm unleashed, but a storm needed direction. I caught Lyra's eye, the fear in her gaze now mirrored by a feral determination.
"Ready for some fireworks?" I shouted over the din. A mischievous grin transformed her dust-smudged face.
She focused, the concentration rippling off her form, and thrust her hands towards the densest mass of the enemy. Vines erupted from the earth, thick and gnarled, fueled by potent growth magic. I channeled my power, weaving fire around the monstrously oversized plants.
With a roar, I unleashed the inferno. Flames devoured the vines, transforming them into burning pyres that consumed goblin flesh and shattered their morale. The press of their attack lessened, the tide momentarily turned. Around us, similar acts of desperation were buying the beleaguered villagers precious time.
The Alvari seized the opportunity. Their archers unleashed a deadly rain, forcing the goblins to pull back. Sylara, with a handful of her deadliest warriors, pressed the attack into their disorganized ranks, cutting a swathe of devastation and breaking their spirit.
The goblins scattered, their snarls turning into whimpers as they fled back towards the jagged maw of the Shadow Pass. But the respite was short-lived. Figures lumbered forth from the gaping darkness – orcs, their piggish features contorted in rage. And behind them… something else, tall, shrouded figures that sent a chill far deeper than the lingering rain could ever reach.