Now I see you in a better place

The sound came first: rhythmic, powerful, and alien. It wasn't just the deep drumming of hooves—there was something else mixed in. A steady, guttural hum, layered with sharp, jarring wails that seemed to pierce the air itself. It was a bizarre blend of resonance and screeches, the kind that sent shivers down spines and made the hair on the back of necks stand on end. Ryden, still running with Lucy's hand clutched in his, risked a glance, his face scrunched in confusion as he listened.

The hum deepened into something melodic but primal, and then it hit him: throat singing. Or at least, what was supposed to be throat singing.

"That sound…" Ryden muttered, his brow furrowing. The horrible screeching grew louder, interspersed with coughs and what sounded like someone gargling rocks. His eyes widened. "Oh no. That's Rice."

Despite the chaos and the danger, Ryden let out an incredulous laugh that quickly turned into a groan. "Of course, he's trying to throat sing. What is that, some kind of intimidation tactic? It's terrifying for all the wrong reasons."

The dissonant wailing mixed with the thunder of hooves, which now became unmistakable. From the hills emerged a vast horde of warriors, each one charging with purpose and fury, their sheer number enough to make the earth tremble.

At the forefront of the charge rode Rice and Darius, their expressions fierce and determined. Rice, was screaming expletives while he was throat singing, holding a spear in one hand, his other hand gripping the reins of his horse with surprising competence. Beside him, Darius looked like a storm in human form, his dark eyes focused and unwavering. The spear he wielded gleamed in the sunlight, its speartip catching the glow of the aura that surrounded him—a burnished bronze hue that radiated strength and endurance.

Flanking the charge was led by the four great chiefs, each an embodiment of their tribe's spirit and strength, riding at the forefront of the allied warriors like avatars of their people's power.

To the far left rode Torran the Shielded, Chief of the Iron Fang. A mountain of a man, Torran's broad shoulders and battle-scarred face lent him an air of unshakable authority. His armor, forged from bronze and bone, seemed to meld with him, every piece polished to a dull sheen as if to reflect his years of steadfast leadership. His gray eyes gleamed with quiet determination, and the braided silver in his thick hair and beard spoke of wisdom earned through countless battles. Around him glowed a steady green aura, grounding and unyielding, like the moss-covered stone of the mountains themselves. Charging at his side was a massive bear spirit, its jade-like fur shimmering in the sunlight. The creature roared with enough force to make the ground quake, its massive paws pounding forward with the same indomitable loyalty Torran inspired in his warriors.

Beside Torran, Lyssara the Silver Tongue, Chief of the Ash Coil Tribe, moved with a serpent's grace. Her slender form was clad in armor of supple black leather, adorned with intricate snake motifs that shimmered with iridescent hues, as though they might slither away at any moment. Her aura coiled and twisted around her like living smoke, a gray mist that obscured as much as it revealed, mirroring her cunning nature. Her sharp eyes flicked over the battlefield with calculating precision, and the faint smirk on her lips hinted at plans already in motion. At her side slithered a serpent spirit as large as a warhorse, its silver-scaled body glinting in the light. It moved sinuously, darting in and out of the charging warriors, its presence as much a warning as Lyssara's clever smile.

To Lyssara's right was Korrin the Thunderblade, Chief of the Storm Scale Tribe, a figure of commanding strength and discipline. His sleek, polished armor bore intricate carvings of storm clouds and lightning bolts, each line seemingly alive with the crackling energy of his electric-blue aura. Sparks danced across the edge of his spear, its length glinting with power as he rode with precision, his every movement purposeful. A thunderous drake spirit galloped beside him, its scales flickering with arcs of lightning that snapped at the air with sharp, deafening cracks. Korrin's expression was a mask of unyielding pride and integrity, his presence as sharp and commanding as the storms his tribe revered.

Finally, to the far right, Zael the Swift, Chief of the Thunder Striders, was a blur of golden light and motion. The smallest of the chiefs, her wiry frame and lightweight armor gave her the appearance of someone who had outrun the wind itself. Her aura rippled like sunlight reflecting on water, shimmering gold as her spear twirled deftly in her hands. The horse spirit charging beside her seemed almost ethereal, its golden mane flowing like liquid fire. Its hooves barely seemed to touch the ground as it galloped, its speed and grace a mirror of Zael's. Her sharp gaze darted from one target to the next, her every move as precise and calculated as her tribe's hit-and-run tactics.

Behind the chiefs surged the full force of the allied tribes, each bringing their own unique power to the charge.

From the Root Binder Tribe, warriors adorned with garlands of vines and leaves stormed forward, their movements strong and deliberate. Towering plant spirits joined them, their bark-covered forms smashing through obstacles with ease, their root-like limbs gripping the ground with primal force.

The Sky Vine Tribe followed, their warriors agile and lightly armored. They moved with swift precision, their slings and throwing axes already flying toward distant targets. Above them soared their avian spirits, birds with shimmering teal and green feathers that dove and darted, their sharp cries echoing across the battlefield.

From the rugged cliffs came the Cliff Walker Tribe, their stocky, sure-footed warriors wielding massive hammers and mauls that promised destruction with every swing. Goat-like spirits with jagged horns charged alongside them, their powerful bodies able to smash through enemy lines with reckless abandon, their hooves sparking against the rocky ground.

The Moon Step Tribe, cloaked in deep midnight blue, seemed to melt into the shadows as they ran. Their feline spirits, sleek and silent, moved like specters among the warriors, their sharp claws and glowing eyes striking fear into their enemies before they even realized the source of the attack.

The Burning Claw Tribe brought wild chaos to the battlefield, their warriors wielding flaming torches and blazing weapons. Their fiery auras burned brightly, matching the intensity of the wolf spirits that prowled beside them, their bodies wreathed in flame. The snarling creatures lunged towards the enemy ranks, leaving trails of fire in their wake.

Finally, the Shadow Tail Tribe moved with quiet menace, their black-clad warriors wielding curved blades designed for swift, deadly strikes. Their shadowy fox spirits weaved through the chaos with almost imperceptible speed, their glowing eyes tracking their prey with chilling accuracy.

The sheer force of the charge was overwhelming. Dust clouds billowed into the air as the allied tribes descended, their spirits roaring and howling, their warriors bellowing war cries that seemed to shake the very earth.

The Blood Talon and Stone Hoof warriors faltered, their pursuit of the captives grinding to a halt as they took in the advancing horde. The once-brash confidence of the Stone Hoof warriors melted away into fear, and the red-glowing ferocity of the Blood Talon warriors dimmed in the face of the unstoppable tide.

Gastrar stared in stunned disbelief, the color draining from his face. "This… this is impossible," he whispered, his voice trembling.

Beside him, Eris stood frozen, her crimson eyes locked on the approaching chiefs and their spirits. For a brief moment, her expression flickered with something that might have been fear.

But the moment passed, and her face hardened. Without warning, she turned to Gastrar and struck him across the face with the back of her hand, the sharp crack cutting through the growing din.

"Forget the captives," she snapped, her voice cold and commanding. "If you want to live, man the fortifications! Defend!"

Gastrar stumbled, clutching his cheek, but obeyed, barking orders to his warriors to regroup. Eris turned back toward the oncoming horde, her grip tightening around her stone knife as she growled, "Blood Talons! Stand your ground!"

But even as her warriors scrambled to obey, the allied tribes closed the distance, their spirits surging ahead with untamed fury. Ryden, clutching Lucy's hand, watched in awe and relief as the horde descended like a force of nature.