Three Bloodmoon scouts were crouched behind an overturned wooden cart. Their shields were raised as arrows thudded into the timber.
Surrounding them were twenty armed rogues—disheveled, desperate men clad in mismatched armor, their eyes hollow with starvation and greed.
At the center of the band stood Silas. His clothes were filthy, his face was now gaunt, and his eyes burned with an unhinged frenzy.
"Kill them!" he screamed, pointing his notched broadsword at the trapped scouts. "Take their weapons. We take what we need and—"
A deafening roar tore through the canyon, drowning out his words.
Before the rogues could even raise their shields, snow and gravel erupted into the air as the sheer force of our impact blew three rogues off their feet.
Diego stood up slowly, his massive bro
