The archers are all lined up, parted with ample space, hidden on the forest’s edge. A heavy grey mist sits in the valley, dark ash clouds low above. The main force approaches in the south; Foxyn is on the western edge of the semicircle able to spot his unit on the same side in the distance. It’s comforting to have them within his sight, though he woke with a sense of calm today.

From the center of the semicircle the first arrow is lit- a signal for each neighbor to follow- and subsequent arrows are alight sequentially. Foxyn has the flaming arrow knocked but not pulled back, letting the oil drip on a predetermined dirt patch. Arrows loosed streak across the plain; sparks falling from them as though they disintegrate mid-flight. Foxyn pulls back and the bowstring snaps against the leather on his forearm. He sets another and lets it join the pyre.

Down the line, the unit leaves cover with their group leaving a few soldiers behind to defend the archers. Their descent is steady, able to observe the guards emerge from Inveilin’s walls. Hastily they form a frontline to meet the southern force and send an offshoot to face the pair that approach from east and west.

After a wall of fire blazes, Foxyn and the other archers move to the closest edge point to provide covering fire and pick off stragglers. A large chestnut horse goes galloping past, the commander atop shouting ‘encouragement’. Foxyn is able to watch it race down the hill and across the fields to the main force joining the back line and disappearing. Foxyn’s group of archers disjointedly reposition themselves to support the ambush units. Foxyn can spot three-quarters of his unit though Ashford is hidden, hopefully between the other three.

The Inveilin guards wait by the city’s walls to provide their own archery cover, and all Wallard units continue their march forward. Ashford white knuckles the daggers in his hands, the three strangers he awoke next to still at his side, two with fiercely protective expressions and the third professional and dangerous. The one with strange features seems as anxious as him; one hand on the sheath, the other on the handle of the small knife. Massive, untouched walls loom closer and the cries ring out as the two sides inevitably engage.

“Ashford, you only have to defend yourself,” the cat-eared one reminds him. He nods, holding the daggers higher up, reversed running along his forearms.

Their unit now on the smaller side are settled in the middle to fill out the group while the larger units can more effectively coordinate. Mher had expected Seton to moan at the disadvantage toward his killcount, but he’d said, ‘No time to collect teeth… and there’s a higher risk of my own death with this many involved.’ The days preceding, Seton had washed often and Mher now contributes that to some anxiety about this battle.

Emmett’s head swivels frequently, not used to fighting with only one eye. He catches sight of the messenger and her bounding feline colored tassels dangling off the side. In the opposite direction, a wall of fire intended to funnel the Inveilin guards into the hands of the waiting army eats the unattended plains, but stops at the barren farmland left abandoned during early winter. With little nutrients leftover after the harvest only a few hardy weeds grew leaving the city untouched but also preventing any escape. Would bodies sow the land further or act as fertilizer?

The group is breaking up and they can see the exchange of blows before they’re thrust into the action. Emmett, with his heavy axe, and Seton with knives leap first to knock away the first enemies.

An opportunist jabs at Ashford, his reaction’s purely instinctual, face hardening hatefully, deflecting the blade. Pain scorches his arm and he delays on the next logical move to make. The Inveilin guard takes advantage of his clear pain and hesitance, overwhelming him with multiple attacks. Ashford quickly glances around for support, but all are preoccupied with their own battle.

The blade comes down and Ashford dodges back; blood gushes hot from his ear. He can hear pounding and lunges at his aggressor, snarling. His daggers have more power behind them than he expects. He’d felt he was barely able to defend, but now he pushes back the uncertain guard. The guard litters his body with cuts but can’t land anything substantial now. He’s on him and stamps down on his foot; the guard falls and only has a moment of fear before Ashford plunges both daggers into his chest.

Mher feels the beastly aura behind them amidst the human bloodlust, unsure who to worry for. With the heightened energies around them, they don’t have to physically look to dodge anyone, but they’re in a near indistinguishable mass preoccupied with evading at all costs. They’re pursued by a few with clear loathing. They hop back and collide with a relievingly familiar figure. Mher and Seton exchange a quick look before Seton instructs, “Get me back to Ashford or Emmett.” Mher’s voice is drowned out, but Seton understands and protects Mher from their pursuers.

Somehow Emmett is far from the wall and surrounded in an empty farmplot, but Ashford is still close, his energy pulsating with wild emotions. Mher and Seton slip through the fighting and regroup with Ashford. Ashford is a bloody sight, drenched with sweat and gasping for air. His eyes are wide and alert when they turn on Mher and Seton.

“Move away from the fire,” Mher says to Ashford and Seton. Ashford barrels through not suffering the consequences of hesitating anymore while Seton keeps strays from hitting any of them.

“What about Emmett?” Seton asks, monotonely.

“The archers are using him as a lure,” Mher replies.

Seton can see the mass of enemies and figures there’s not much help that they can provide that the archers can’t. They break away with a pair of guards attached, but Seton dispatches them quickly.

There’s no time to catch their breath before they’re engaged with enemies once again. Ashford’s daggers are no longer held defensively and make the first swing leaving him open to attack. A guard takes the shot and Seton uses Ashford like bait to wipe out the others. Mher struggles, avoiding fighting directly but strays too far from the crowd.

An arrow lodges dangerously close to them, deep in the weeds and dirt. Guards descend on them, leaving little space for them to move freely, forcing their hand. Their ears flatten and they meet the first blow with the slim serrated knife. It catches the blade giving Mher a little sway on the opponent's movement. For such a tiny weapon, it’s built sturdy allowing Mher to guide some blades though they’re unskilled. They’re still caught by some enemy attacks, but they’re able to manage and find an opening back to Seton and Ashford. Ashford is paler each time Mher catches sight of him, numerous cuts taking an effective toll.

The guards outnumber their admittedly ragtag group, though they seem to struggle against the main force overall. As comrades drop the thought seems to collectively cross their minds that they’re only meant to divide the guard temporarily, their lives used to be a distraction. As their numbers begin to dwindle, a couple units make a break for the main force looking for safety in numbers. The archers on the wall lay into them dissuading others from trying in desperate vain.

The feline-bound messenger appears from the main force with more soldiers at her heel. They’ve come to bolster their defenses though a myriad have already broken through and seek out their archers. The archers easily pick them off and their tiny line of defense keeps out the rest.

With their portion of the battlefield balanced, Ashford and Seton are able to fight with freedom of movement. Mher learns on the fly the best way to handle their knife though their knuckles suffer several scarpes.

“Hold them off!” The messenger shouts before again taking off, retreating to the main force, no fear, exhaustion, or blood on her brow.

The new soldiers supplement the loss even aiding the unit who are struggling. Able to regain their footing and push back into place, resembling rough formation again, morale starts to build.

A shrill whistle calls from the wall; the guards dash back to the wall, expectedly to reformat. Their groups draw near with intent to corner them.

A shrill whistle of a different pitch pierces the air and the guards pull metal slats from the wall, creating an umbrella for them and revealing Misthen within the wall. Seton shields Ashford without a second thought and Mher pulls up their cloak as buckets of a boiling liquid are thrown at them.

Wallard soldiers scream, blindly fleeing from the wall. Mher screeches and tosses aside their cloak, backing away in the process. Their eyes land on Seton’s back. Horrifyingly, the skin of Seton’s bare shoulders and back bubble and slough. Yet Mher senses no pain. Shocked and struggling to move, Ashford drags Seton, stumbling, away.

Seton grabs his chest, stuck inhaling. “My heart… the beating…” he’s unable to complete the thought.

Both Ashford and Seton are only standing by sheer force of will, so Mher decides without consulting, “Let’s make a tactical retreat!” They lead them away, the guards still preoccupied at the wall by army members who weren’t caught by surprise. There’s little to block them from view, but Mher desperately searches the ley line anyway. A shoddy shed, it’d barely fit two, but Mher takes it. They turn back, noticing Ashford had stalled, and see Ashford kneeling next to Seton, who has collapsed.