The world had narrowed to screams, steel, and the stench of rot.
Sarissa's sword split another undead down the middle, her boots skidding across a blood-slicked plaza. Vyle was down beside her, one leg torn open, but still swinging his blade with grim defiance, healing the wound only enough to allow him some movement.
Iron Roar's line had broken, Dawnshade's snipers had fled the rooftops, and Ethercore's medics were nearly out of mana.
It felt like the end.
And then, light.
Not fire, not spellflare. Not an ability any of them recognized.
A golden pulse, clean, sharp, and holy in a way this world had all but forgotten, rolled over the battlefield like a second dawn.
The undead froze.
Mid-lunge, mid-scream, mid-climb. Dozens of ghouls locked in place like puppets with severed strings. One, barely a foot away from Sarissa's face, let out a wet hiss and then went still, its eyes wide, claws trembling.
Silence crashed into the plaza, and then came the voice.
