The air was thick with the stench of blood and smoke as the battle raged on. In the heart of the conflict, Zephyr and Morgan fought side by side, their movements were a seamless dance of power and precision. Yet, despite their synchronized assault, the weight of the Briarholt soldiers bore down on them like a relentless tide.
Zephyr's emerald eyes flashed as his wind cleaved through an advancing soldier's shield with a crack of metal. The soldier staggered back, but Zephyr was already in motion, pivoting to strike another down in a fluid, almost effortless arc. But even with the advantage of skill, the sheer number of Briarholt soldiers made victory feel like a distant dream.
The clash of steel rang in his ears, drowning out the cries of the wounded and the crackling flames consuming the city. He barely registered the sharp pain in his side as a spear glanced off his armor. His eyes stayed focused ahead—on Morgan.
