To the Trees
The wind roared like a living beast, its claws tearing through the air as the harpies continued their relentless assault.
High above, dark, winged shapes twisted and dove, their talons gleaming like polished daggers, their wind spells slicing into flesh and armor alike.
Volk's forces were faltering. Ogres groaned under the pressure, Orcs bled through their teeth, shields trembling as the wind blasts beat against them like invisible war hammers.
The cries of anguish mixed with guttural growls of defiance as Volk's horde tried to hold their ground, but the air was a merciless enemy.
Volk stood at the center of the chaos, unyielding, radiating raw power, his radioactive glow flickering erratically as his eyes narrowed.
He watched his warriors suffer. He watched them bleed.
And he would not allow this to continue.
His fist shot into the air—an immediate and commanding signal.
The Orcs froze. The Ogres paused mid-groan.