A deep horn echoed across the field.
From the far ridge, the next wave came.
Grimhorns. Dozens—maybe hundreds. Charging through the broken terrain. Some bore axes, others swords. A few held crooked staffs that pulsed faintly, threads of corrupted magic dancing at their fingertips.
Their war cries tore through the silence.
Then—they slowed.
They saw it.
Bodies. Frozen and shattered. Their own kin, limbs twisted in unnatural ways. The front ranks stumbled, confused.
One of them raised a clawed hand, pointing upward.
The rest followed his gaze.
Kevin.
He hovered high above the battlefield, wings stretched wide. No emotion on his face. The wind coiled around him like a living thing.
The grimhorn archers drew their bows. Strings pulled tight.
Kevin blinked once.
Then—wind screamed.
The world stopped.
The arrows never flew. The entire army below was frozen in place, frost creeping across their skin, locking their limbs mid-movement.
