The sky burned red with fire. Smoke rolled across the plains like a tide, swallowing the banners of broken armies. The clash of steel and screams of the dying rang like a song of ruin across the Upper Middle Realm.
The enemy surged in countless waves, an endless tide of blades and fury. And against them stood the Eryndor Clan. Wolves draped in steel, warriors who fought not with fear but with hunger.
At their head strode Lady Eryndor.
Her silver hair streamed wild in the wind, her eyes glowing gold with the fury of her bloodline. In one hand she carried her blade, broad and jagged, a weapon forged to kill armies. With each swing, men were split like wheat before the scythe.
But it was not steel that made her feared.
Her body shuddered, bones reshaping, claws sprouting where fingers had been. Fangs flashed in the firelight as her form blurred between woman and wolf, a predator born of both realms.
When she roared, the sound was not human. It was the howl of a beast that had claimed dominion over the battlefield.
The enemy faltered. Whole battalions slowed, stumbling under the weight of terror.
Then she moved.
She leapt into their ranks, claws tearing shields apart, her blade shattering spears like brittle twigs. Arrows struck her, only to glance away or snap against her hide. She ripped through cavalry, horses screaming as she toppled riders with a single swipe.
Her clan howled in answer, the chorus of wolves rising behind her. They struck with feral precision, emboldened by her presence, carving through enemies who outnumbered them five to one.
Generals on the opposing side shouted in panic:
"Hold the line! Do not break!"
But they broke.
The field became a slaughterhouse, the Silver Fang of Eryndor at its heart. Blood stained the earth, and the enemy, once bold, fled before her. She did not stop. She pursued them through their ranks, laughing — not cruel, not joyous, but with the raw madness of battle.
By nightfall, the plain was silent but for the crackle of flames. Corpses carpeted the ground, twisted in grotesque piles where her blade had fallen heaviest.
The Eryndor clan stood bloodied but unbroken, their howls rising into the smoke-choked night.
And at the center, Lady Eryndor planted her blade into the earth, eyes alight, chest heaving.
A goddess of war.
A beast in human skin.
The wolf that had devoured an army.