Eryndor's final words hung in the air, the heat of them as real as the fading breath of the Netherbreed.
Voln felt the silence that followed- thick, heavy, suffocating- as his men shifted uneasily behind him. He exhaled slowly, trying to navigate between the dilemma of caution and duty.
He hesitated, weighing the risk of obeying orders against the survival of his men. He had to make a decision and eventually, he had decided.
"Separate into four lines," he ordered finally, his voice steady but hollow, "The first line. Two forward teams, shields high. We will make our way inside first and the others will follow after us."
The soldiers obeyed, immediately falling into motion. Armour scraped against armour as they reassembled, falling into place like weary ghosts.
