الصوت المشترك

A lone Death Banshee, a child of the ebon wood has been isolated and injured. She did not remember breaking from the line—only the noise, the smoke, and the sudden, terrible quiet that followed her into the mist. Her sword arm hung useless, blood slipping between her fingers as she clutched it tight to her chest. Each step burned. Each breath tasted of iron. Behind her, boots—twelve at least—crashed through brush and stone, relentless and closing. The fog swallowed everything.