The horns of war shattered the air.
A second blast, then a third—urgent, panicked, a desperate signal that sent the entire camp into a frenzy.
Shouts echoed through the Western Guard Camp, officers barking orders, boots thundering against the packed earth as soldiers scrambled into formation. Weapons were drawn—blades, shields, bows, spears—and the sound of metal clashing against metal filled the space between breaths.
The fog had swallowed the horizon, thick and heavy, curling like tendrils over the dirt road leading toward the outer palisade.
And then, within the mist—they came.
The Imp horde.
Not in disorganised clusters.
Not in mindless, scattered waves.
This was different.
This was a siege.
——
A wave of shadows emerged from the fog, twisting and shifting, their low guttural war cries rising into a maddened, feverish crescendo.
The Imps charged in tight groups, their crude bone-covered shields raised, their rusted weapons glinting beneath the dim morning light.
Not a disorganised mob—a warband, an army.
And at their rear, Red Nose stood unmoving, towering over his kin like a warlord directing a massacre.
He raised his clawed hand, the purple glow of his veins pulsing, and with that single motion—
The onslaught began.
——
The first impact was like a hammer striking the gates.
The wooden palisade shuddered, groaning under the force of a hundred bodies slamming against it.
"ARCHERS, RELEASE!"
A cry rang out from above—Sergeant Boros, stationed along the wooden watchtower, his weathered face twisted in raw concentration.
Arrows whistled through the air, dozens upon dozens, raining down upon the tide of approaching creatures.
Some found their mark—Imps howled as steel sank into their flesh, twisting as they collapsed to the ground.
But many—too many—did not fall.
They pushed forward, shields raised, their malformed, grotesque bodies moving with terrifying coordination.
——
"THEY'RE USING FORMATIONS!" someone shouted, voice cracking with disbelief.
A massive wooden ram, crude but reinforced with iron spikes, was hoisted upon the shoulders of at least a dozen Imps.
They rushed the gates.
"SHIELDS!"
Captain Garret, the veteran leading the front-line defenders, braced himself at the main gate, raising his tower shield, his men quickly forming a shield wall.
The ram struck.
The first impact sent a tremor up my spine.
The second nearly shook me off my feet.
The third—
The wood began to splinter.
——
"Spears forward! Hold your line!" Garret bellowed, his deep voice unshaken, even as the palisade shuddered under the relentless assault.
His men obeyed, thrusting their long spears through the gaps of the shields, impaling the first row of attackers.
Screams echoed.
Imps fell, gurgling, thrashing—but they did not stop.
——
From the left flank, a second wave surged forward, their smaller frames darting through the fog.
"LADDERS!"
I turned just in time to see them—crude wooden siege ladders, carried on the backs of stronger, mutated Imps.
They slammed them against the walls.
And then—they climbed.
——
On the walls—
"DROP THEM DOWN!"
Lt. Degran, stationed above, grabbed a long pike, using the blunt end to push one of the ladders away before it could be fully secured.
A second one went up.
Then a third.
"WE CAN'T STOP THEM ALL!"
The first Imp reached the top.
Degran thrust his sword forward, catching the creature mid-leap—but another took its place almost immediately.
And another.
And another.
——
On the right flank, the situation was worse.
"TORCHES! GET THE TORCHES!"
Sergeant Lucian, one of the youngest officers in the camp, scrambled to grab a flaming brand, hurling it toward the advancing Imps.
The fire caught, licking up one of the ladders, and engulfing the creatures in flames.
They screamed—horrible, shrieking wails—but they still climbed.
"THEY'RE NOT BREAKING!"
——
The outer walls trembled again—this time from the constant battering of the ram.
Garret cursed under his breath, his knuckles white against his shield.
"The gate won't hold," he muttered. "Not much longer."
I could see it, too—the cracks deepening, the wood splintering, the iron fastenings bending under the repeated force.
One more strike—
And they would be through.
——
Above, Boros loosed another volley.
"FIRE!"
The remaining archers let loose their arrows, desperately aiming for the Imps carrying the ram.
Some fell—but there were always more.
It was like trying to drain the ocean with a single bucket.
——
"RETREAT TO THE INNER LINES!"
Garret's voice boomed through the chaos, and his men began to fall back, moving in tight, disciplined formations, pulling away from the crumbling front line.
The gate wouldn't last another hit.
——
But Red Nose knew that.
And he wasn't even bothering to hide it.
He watched from his vantage point, his monstrous form barely moving, eyes gleaming as his army wore us down.
He was not leading them into a reckless charge.
He was grinding us down.
Pushing us toward exhaustion.
Forcing us to fight wave after endless wave.
Making us too tired to resist when he finally struck.
——
"THE GATE—!"
With a sickening crack, the wooden beams snapped.
The barricade gave way.
The Imps poured in.
——
The Western Guard Camp—
Was breached.
——
I exhaled, my hands tightening around the hilt of my blade.
"Here we go," Elias murmured beside me, his voice oddly thrilled.
Edan's eyes gleamed with something too sharp, too curious.
And me?
I could feel it.
The hunger for battle, the instinct, the purpose.
This—
This was what I was made for.
——
The fight for survival had begun.