Markis suddenly dived into the hole leading to the heart of the tree, just before the men kicked into action and stabbed themselves without hesitation.
The tempo of the battlefield shifted instantly. One second it was silent anticipation, the next — chaos. The brutal, synchronized action of the men, paired with Markis's sudden disappearance, left the commander on edge. He didn't move forward. He simply stood in place, his weapon drawn, eyes narrowed.
Izikel's eyes remained wide open, as if they'd been glued like that. He couldn't look away. He had just witnessed men — real people — drive blades straight into their own throats, some slicing clean across with expert precision. It was done with no hesitation, no sign of fear. Like it meant nothing. Like they were machines completing a task.
His heart pounded like a war drum, each beat echoing in his ears as he tried to make sense of what he had seen.
