Vortex Origins

"They’re too many!"

"Fire at the Rotbacks!"

Lances of light tore through the air as the laser guns atop Ironhold’s walls unleashed their fury. One beam struck a bloated Rotback. Its sac ruptured in a wet blast—acid and bile splashed outward, melting limbs and bodies nearby.

But the horde didn’t stop.

Grivehowls darted forward, snarling shadows with too many joints and far too much hunger. Boneflayers skittered beside them, their claws scraping the stone as they accelerated.

The Ironhold guards stood firm.

Frontliners braced with tower shields, the wall of steel groaning under each impact. Behind them, spears thrust through gaps with practiced rhythm.

A spear tip pierced bone. A Boneflayer convulsed and dropped, twitching.

Chris didn’t flinch. He drove his spear deep into another skull, then roared above the noise.

"Don’t break formation! If we keep this up, we might be able to win! Keep hitting!"

The formation tightened. Each time a creature struck a shield, a spear greeted it—cold, sharp, unrelenting. Above, defenders shouted orders and rained down fire.

Then the Grivehowls froze.