𓂁𓂄 . 𓄼 𝔄𝔩𝔦𝔰𝔱𝔞𝔦𝔯 ㅤㅤㅤ𔒝

The axes clanged against the logs with a hurried rhythm. There was no time to rest or to wipe the sweat from their brows. As soon as the sun began to tinge the pine treetops with a dying orange hue, silent panic gripped the village. No one wanted to be outside when night fell.

"Point your tools and get into the cabins!" shouted old Marcus, dragging a bundle of firewood toward his reinforced oak door.

The houses weren't large or luxurious; they were rough structures of wood and mud, hidden deep in the forest, camouflaged among the undergrowth in the hope of going unnoticed. But the Sorcerers always knew where to look for them, where to lie in wait.

But Alistair, a hunter bearing the golden mark of the sun, watched the village with keen attention, and then he caught a whirlwind of icy wind. It wasn't an ordinary gust of wind; it was the entrance, the signal. Alistair tensed and prepared to face the sorcerer. His large hand, hardened by years of training, was ready to draw his sword.