"Hold!" she roared. "Hold for the storm-bearer!"
Those words lashed the line together stronger than any rope. The elves' formation hardened, and their war-chant rose in cracked but defiant harmony—a thread of song cutting through the stench of rot.
Draven circled the guardian's flank, twin blades carving precise sigils of dismemberment. Each strike parted bark to reveal pulsing lines of corruption; each line died in a hiss of black vapor. He moved like chess pieces sliding across a lethal board—foreseeing, countering, never overextending. Sparks from Sylvanna's arrows glinted off his steel, painting momentary constellations that winked out as fast as they formed.
