It was go-time, baby. Real battle hours. And guess what? Mela looked calm on the outside—like some chill city sipping wine in the sunset—but inside? Oh, hell no. These centaur mofos were locked in, loaded up, and petty as ever.
The plan? Real simple. Lock the damn gates. No welcome mats. No "Hey, Queen Fien, come on in and wreck our shit." Nah. If Fien wanted in, she had to come knocking—with siege sticks, war drums, and that Denefremim heat.
Now, normally, centaurs had one major L: they couldn't climb. Like, at all. Four hooves and no hops? Sad. But Mela had a trick up their sleeve—ten of their rejects. Yeah, ten misfits with just two hooved legs and full man-pecs up top. Basically: half-centaurs, full-time weirdos. But boy could they climb.
And these guys? They had arrows. Like, a stupid amount of arrows. Sharp ones. Fast ones. Maybe even a cursed one just for vibes.
Shæz, our strategy queen, totally missed this in her planning session. She was probably too busy calculating enemy morale and drinking hot wine to remember, oh yeah, Mela's got rooftop archers who hate everyone.
Anyway—picture this: Big-ass Denefremim warriors at the gate, smashing away with logs like they were trying to break into Walmart on Black Friday. Muscles flexing, sweat dripping, all that main-character energy. And then—zip! First arrow flies. Zip zip zip! Now it's raining pointy death from above.
Screaming. Ducking. Someone yells, "What the fuck was that?!" Probably Fien, let's be honest.
And up there? Those half-centaur creeps are just giggling like evil gremlins, sniping down one Denefremim at a time like it's target practice. Mela's defense? Kinda genius. Kinda trashy. Totally annoying. Chaos officially unlocked.
Fien saw the mess. Her warriors were flailing—some were screaming, some were catching arrows with their lungs, and morale? Morale had packed a bag and left for vacation.
So what did she do? She lifted the damn Scepter of the End. Oh yeah, that crazy-looking death wand lit up like a pissed-off god. Meg—her blood-red warhorse with attitude issues—took the hint and charged toward the stronghold while everyone else was running in the opposite direction like they just saw the devil tap-dancing.
And those creepy half-centaur archers up top? Yeah, they saw her. They rained arrows like it was free-sample Friday. But nah—Fien was not having it. That scepter melted those suckers mid-air like microwave popcorn. And then—BOOM—one almighty blast knocked their creepy two-hooved asses off the wall like bowling pins. Straight yeeted off.
Everyone saw it. Denefremims froze mid-freakout. That stick glowed like a rave on steroids. Even the doubters? Now they believed. The queen wasn't just mad—she was divine vengeance in black leather.
Inside Mela, the centaurs saw it too. They were shook, but they weren't about to chicken out. Their orders were simple: don't freak out, don't die (yet), and don't open the gates unless it was to punch somebody.
Mesa, standing before his centaur warriors, could feel the panic oozing through his ranks. And yeah, he knew exactly why. That light? That wasn't just Fien flexing. That seemed like the Night Rider jad joined the game.
And everybody in Senedro knew—you don't fuck with a Night Rider. That's like picking a fight with a tsunami. But Mesa? Dude was stubborn with a death wish.
"Mela, we've got each other," he shouted. "Fien has chosen war against us. She is breaking into our city, ready to kill us in our own land. No—we fight for what is ours! I will kill the Night Rider myself!"
And boom—instant testosterone explosion. His army roared like a frat party on steroids.
But the Denefremims? They were this close to cracking the gate. One more hit and—
Mesa wasn't dumb. He wasn't gonna let the fight happen inside his city like some kind of open-floor-plan bloodbath. That was a hard nope.
"Open the gates!" he roared.
And the moment those gates creaked up? Mesa and his centaur cavalry charged—hooves thundering, blades swinging, like Mela had just turned into a revenge movie. They tore into the exhausted Denefremim warriors at the gate like a buffet line. Tired or not, they were getting served. The battlefield was officially lit.
It was all swords, chaos, and limbs flying—centaurs knocking over bears, and bears body-slamming centaurs like it was some demented wrestling match. Real war. Real screams. No turning back now. The centaurs? Yeah, they didn't expect the Denefremims to come in like a damn hurricane. And oops—they were also totally outnumbered. Sucks to suck.
Gulutel was out there going full blender mode—arms, legs, tails, hooves, didn't matter. That dude was slicing through bodies like they were made of paper mâché.
And then there was Galeam, still riding with that I'm-horny-for-violence energy but keeping a hawk-eye on Fien, making damn sure no one even breathed funny in her direction.
Meanwhile, Mesa was galloping around the field like he was late to a meeting with destiny, scanning for that one-winged Miteon he thought was the legendary Night Rider. Spoiler: we all know he wasn't.
He spotted the guy—white horse, wing tucked into that leather jacket Shæz forced on him, whole vibe like an angsty cosplay gone wrong—and BAM! Mesa knocked him clean off the horse.
"Fight, you idiot," Mesa growled, sword already swinging. "I want to see what you've got."
The Miteon boy barely dodged, still dazed, barely armed, barely ready for this shit—but too late. Mesa drove his sword forward and stabbed him straight through the chest. No hesitation, no honor crap. Just steel and pride. Right in the heart. At least, that's what Mesa thought.
He yanked his blade back like a goddamn hero and turned to the chaos, screaming at his warriors, "We are winning this war!"
And for a second… maybe they believed him.