The silence of the Northern Wastes did not break; it shattered.
When Ethan gave the command, five thousand rogues, monsters, and exiles launched themselves across the frozen plain. It was a tidal wave of fur, steel, and shadow, roaring with a collective voice that shook the ice beneath their feet.
On the other side, the High Council’s army stood like a golden wall. Their Wardens lowered their sun-steel spears in perfect unison. Their Battle-Mages began to chant, weaving a canopy of violet protective wards overhead.
"Hold the line!" Elder Sterling screamed, his voice amplified by magic. "Purge the unclean!"
The two armies collided with the force of a tectonic shift.
The sound was deafening—the crunch of armor, the wet tear of flesh, the boom of magical detonations.
Volkov was the tip
