The battlefield stank of death.
Leon stood beside Saria on a mound of churned earth, bodies and broken weapons scattered around them, the ash-soaked ground slick with blood.
The wind blew, but it didn't clear the air—only carried the stench of death farther, mingling with the acrid burn of corrupted magic.
His black and crimson tunic was torn, his chest heaving, his magic a faint flicker after the relentless fighting.
The Pale Citadel loomed, its bone walls pulsing, the final tower a jagged scar against the blood-red sky.
Saria pointed to the bottleneck ahead—five corrupted knights, their armor cracked with glowing red veins, holding the choke point, their blades cutting down anyone who dared approach.
Their hollow eyes burned, their movements unnaturally fast, each swing a death sentence.
"Your turn," she said, her voice steady but urgent, her torn black robe fluttering, blood streaking her arms.
