Marlon's breath came in ragged gasps, each one sharp as broken glass. His vision blurred at the edges, darkening with the creeping weight of exhaustion and blood loss. But still, he refused to fall. He would not show weakness—not while men still stood, not while the city of Carles lay under threat.
Hector stood beside him, his face streaked with grime, eyes narrowed toward the ridgeline of Mount Roca—just beyond the jagged outcrops that framed the plateau like jagged teeth. There, amid the last golden embers of twilight, shadows emerged from the treeline.
They moved like ghosts—bows still drawn, cloaked in earth-colored garb that melted into the background.
A sudden gust caught the edge of one cloak, flaring it just enough to reveal a sigil Hector did not recognize: a firebird, wings outstretched, flame trailing from its tail.
But it wasn't the symbol that stopped Hector cold.
It was the man beneath it. His back was straight and his presence commanding.
