Marek’s POV

  The badlands erupted into violence the moment the first troll crest appeared over the ridge.

  Captain Marek stood at the center of the pass, longsword drawn, aura steady like a drawn bowstring. The three groups — his center, Zhulkar’s western flank, Rowan’s eastern flank — had set their traps perfectly: loose rocks piled for tripping, dust pockets ready to blind, the river bend behind them as the final fallback.

  The trolls came in a tide — hundreds of soldier trolls, gray-skinned and snarling, eyes glowing red with hunger. Eight giants lumbered behind them, each one twice the height of a man, thick-skinned, clubs the size of small trees.

  Marek raised his sword.

  “Hold the line! Kite and bleed them! No heroics!”

  The fight began.

  Western Flank – Zhulkar Sandvein

  Zhulkar moved like the desert itself — slow, crushing, inevitable. He planted his feet wide, stone hammer raised. A soldier troll charged him, claws out. Zhulkar swung — “Desert Hammer Fall!” — the hammer came down like an avalanche. The troll’s arm shattered with a wet crunch. The creature screamed — “RAAAGH!” — staggering back. Zhulkar stepped forward, swung again, and crushed its skull. Bone and brain splattered across the rock. He roared — “Come on, you ugly bastards!” — voice like grinding stone.

  Eastern Flank – Sir Rowan Hale

  Rowan moved with knightly precision — longsword and shield in perfect balance. A troll lunged. Rowan raised his shield — “Iron Bastion!” — aura flaring silver along the metal. The impact rang like a bell, jarring his arm. “Ugh—!” he grunted, teeth gritted. He countered — shield bash to the troll’s chest, staggering it, then a clean thrust to the throat. Blood sprayed. Rowan’s voice was calm but edged with pain. “Next!”

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  Center – Marek’s Command

  Marek fought like a soldier — no flash, just efficiency. A troll swung at him. He sidestepped, used the creature’s momentum to drive his sword into the knee — “Leg Breaker!” — the joint popped. The troll howled — “GRRAAH!” — and fell. Marek finished it with a thrust to the brain. He shouted over the chaos. “Kite them! Don’t stand still! Fall back step by step!”

  The groups retreated slowly — one step at a time — bleeding the trolls, using the narrow pass to limit their numbers.

  But the horde was endless.

  Half the giants were down — heads crushed, bodies broken — but the rest kept coming. Less than a hundred trolls remained, but it was still too many. Normal humans without aura or training were tiring.

  One local fighter took a claw to the chest — “Aaaah—!” he screamed, collapsing. Another was dragged down by three trolls — “Help—!” — his voice cut off in a wet gurgle.

  Marek’s face was grim. We’re losing people. Too fast.

  He shouted. “Fall back! To the river bend! Keep bleeding them!”

  The camp retreated, step by bloody step.

  Camp Tile – Watch Tower

  Gauis and Rebecca stood on the watch tower platform, eyes toward the west.

  Gauis had drawn his old sword — longer, heavier than his usual knife. He rarely used it — the strain on his damaged channels was too great — but today was different. He focused his aura into his good eye — a quiet flare of pressure — and the distant battlefield sharpened into view.

  Rebecca leaned on her staff, breathing shallow. “What do you see?”

  Gauis’s voice was low. “They’re retreating. Slowly. The group is holding, but they’re losing people. The trolls are still coming. Not as many as before, but still too many for normal fighters.”

  Rebecca nodded. “We need to be ready.”

  Gauis’s eyebrows suddenly straightened.

  He spoke quietly. “Looks like there will be a few warg riders going our way.”

  Rebecca’s grip tightened on her staff.

  The world was coming closer.

  And Camp Tile was no longer just a refuge.

  It was a battlefield.