The trebuchet creaked as its limbs locked back into firing position. Raven adjusted the sighting arm with steady fingers, then tapped his partner on the shoulder.
"See that? Between the two fires by the farmstead. That's our kill box."
The farm fields stretched before them, unrecognizable ruins of once-living land. Cratered soil gaped open like raw wounds, blackened by fire. Broken fence posts jutted up at odd angles, skeletal against the haze. Smoke drifted in low, choking the sightlines, curling along the ground like it was searching for something to drag down.
Raven squinted through the mess. For a second, there was only silence—the surreal, aching quiet that came just before slaughter.
Then, a faint tremor.
He felt it through his boots before he saw them: the rhythmic, building beat of hundreds of armored feet, the Fold's vanguard emerging like a shadow tide.
Raven exhaled once, slow.
