The accursed blight (WIP)

The screams of war filled the air, sharp and ragged, a grim harmony to the relentless drumbeat of clashing steel and tearing flesh. Smoke hung thick over the battlefield, a choking veil that stung the eyes and seared the lungs. From the distant ramparts of the human stronghold, the rhythmic thrum of the Arcana Catapults shook the earth. Each launch sent blazing orbs of fire arcing high into the darkened sky before crashing into the beastfolk’s advancing lines, leaving molten craters and charred corpses in their wake. But even magic had its limits. "Captain Theris!" a young soldier called, his voice raw with panic as he stumbled into the command tent. "The last reserve of arcane shards has been depleted. The catapults... they’ll be silent soon." Theris stood rigid, his polished breastplate streaked with soot and blood. The weight of his responsibility felt heavier than the enchanted steel of his armor. He turned to the boy, whose trembling hands clutched the pommel of his short sword. Behind him, the tent flaps fluttered wildly in the foul wind. "So it ends," Theris muttered, his voice barely louder than the distant roars of the beastfolk horde. The soldier opened his mouth to speak, but the words caught in his throat. What could he say? What words could stem the tide of despair that crept through the camp like a living thing? Theris stepped past him, out into the chaos of the encampment. Fires burned unchecked, casting jagged shadows across the faces of weary men and women. He saw it in their eyes—the realization that the line would not hold, that this fortress would soon fall like all the others before it. Beyond the walls, the beastfolk surged forward in endless waves, a tide of claws, fangs, and primal fury. Their war cries were unrelenting, a guttural cacophony that drowned out the dying. Among them were hulking ursine warriors clad in crude iron, lupine scouts darting through the underbrush