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The air reeks of iron and smoke as you plant your boots into blood-soaked earth, a lone sentinel against the ravenous tide surging toward your homeland. Your blade gleams dull under ash-choked skies, its edge notched from cleaving through bone and armor alike, yet still hungry. They come again—howling marauders with rusted axes, archers nocking fire-tipped arrows, siege beasts dragging jagged hooks across the ground. You don’t flinch. Let them break against your guard. A swing arcs toward your skull; you pivot, parry, bury steel in a throat before the corpse hits mud. Arrows scream—your shield rises, deflecting death into the writhing mass. A war-hound lunges, jaws snapping—your pommel crushes its skull mid-leap. Every breath burns. Every muscle screams. But you hold. You *dig in*. The ground quakes as a battering ram lumbers forward, its operators shielded behind rotting timber. You sheathe your sword, grip the spear lashed to your back, and heave. The throw splits the ram’s heart—wood splinters, men scatter. Still they come. Still you stand. Your armor buckles. Your wounds weep. Dawn bleeds into dusk. How long can flesh endure? How many more will fall before your resolve does? The land’s fate hangs on your next breath. **Survive.**
