The Alpha's Plump Mistake
I bellowed — and let the silver take me.
I spurred my mount and charged downhill, straight into the mire.
The clash was butchery. My blade sheared through the first leviathan from spine to belly — black, acid‑blood hissing and smoking where it hit the snow. I hit the ground rolling, shifting, tearing through them with claw and steel — smashing armor, severing tentacles, crushing bone. The berserker fire wrapped me in heat that burned through the cold. Around me, the Northern line held — axes, spears, shields — a wall of flesh and iron, driving them back, meter by bloody meter.