The messenger spits blood. ‘They don’t tire, my lord. They don’t negotiate. And every one of our dead... puts on a helmet.’
You have three warlords, two days of grain, and one broken trebuchet. Behind you: a kingdom of ashes. Ahead: an enemy that grows stronger with every breath you waste. Warlords Under Siege
Below, by torchlight, you see them. Thousands. Not marching—shambling with purpose. Each one wears the face of yesterday’s ally. The Iron Khan’s son leads the vanguard, his throat still cut, his eyes now hollow pits of amber light. The messenger spits blood