When the Skaven began their charge, it looked like an avalanche.
A rolling mass of black fur and flashing white blades surged forward, unstoppable. Individual ratmen had no control over when to halt—if halting was even possible.
They would either be cut down by the enemy ahead—
Or butchered by the comrades behind—
Or, in that sliver of desperate hope every Skaven clung to—
They might kill first.
Then surge onward.
And repeat.
Felix Jaeger stood shoulder to shoulder with the mercenaries, gripping his enchanted sword, Karaghul.
He had made it back to the tavern where the sellswords lodged. He had warned them. Weapons had been drawn. Steel glinted beneath the red glow of distant fire.
The Skaven's warp-flame had not yet reached this quarter, but the horizon already burned sickly green.
Yet when Felix saw Gotrek Gurnisson at his side, axe in hand—
He felt steadier.
Gotrek was a Slayer.
Among Dwarfs, Slayers were the strangest—and deadliest—of warriors.
Each bore a burden: unforgivable guilt, ancient vengeance, or a private torment no stubborn Dwarf mind could ease. That burden drove them onto a path of destruction—of enemies, and ultimately, themselves.
Every Slayer believed his journey would end in glorious death.
"So, manling," Gotrek growled, eyes blazing with battle-lust, "you found our filthy little friends?"
"Yes," Felix panted, forcing his breathing to steady.
"Then let's kill them."
At the end of the cobbled street, the Skaven tide appeared.
And crashed into steel.
—
"Run!"
Mia shouted at the top of her lungs.
The last of the civilians were nearly past her now. She could see the Skaven teeth snapping behind them.
She leapt down from her perch.
Her lips pressed thin. She breathed through her nose, slow and controlled.
Her heart hammered.
Of course she was afraid.
But more than fear—
She wanted to do something worth remembering.
Even in another world.
The last fleeing civilian glanced back as he passed her.
He saw a slight girl standing between death and hope.
Mia had no intention of staying long. She could run as fast as they could.
But she would be the last.
And she would widen the gap.
A Clanrat lunged.
Her Golden Sword flashed.
One clean stroke—
Its head tumbled.
Clarity of one's own strength granted courage.
She stepped back as more Skaven advanced, blades raised, the black tide seemingly endless.
She raised her hand.
"Wrath of Gold!"
BOOM—
A golden shockwave erupted outward like a collapsing mountain.
Skaven were hurled backward, bodies flung into the ranks behind them.
It would have been even more devastating if she had waited to be fully surrounded—
But she would not take that risk.
The Skaven charge shattered like surf against stone.
Rats flew, bones shattered, blood burst from eyes and snouts. Those launched backward slammed into the tightly packed ranks behind, toppling more.
Pressed forward by Stormvermin halberds, the Clanrats were packed too tightly to recover.
Balance failed.
The line collapsed.
Mia did not linger.
She turned and ran.
Skaven tripped over one another, snarling, stabbing blindly.
Those driven forward from behind could not see what had happened.
They only knew that stopping meant death at the hands of their own overseers.
Those knocked down could not rise before clawed feet trampled them.
They clawed at one another.
Knifed one another.
Pathetic creatures.
Mia felt nauseated.
"Fireball!"
A blazing sphere streaked into the clustered mass.
It detonated—
And ignited fur.
As the saying went—
More fur, more fuel.
Grease-slick coats turned into tinder.
Flames spread rapidly among the packed bodies.
Skaven shrieked.
They could have avoided their burning kin—
If they had room.
But they did not.
Stormvermin pushed from behind.
Mia's incantations shoved from the front.
The rats watched in horror as fire leapt from one to the next.
Chaos worsened.
Clanrats began to rout—
Only to be driven forward again by cold, merciless halberds.
The Skaven believed in one thing:
Nothing could withstand the tide.
Death was the foundation of victory.
For every rat slain, two—five—ten more would surge forward.
The tide faltered—
Then rolled again.
Her fireball could only consume so many.
A dozen at best.
Even with the fire spreading, it was insignificant against the whole.
The narrow street bottlenecked them—
But it hindered her as well.
She couldn't see the full effect.
She seized the moment to gain distance.
But Skaven were faster than humans.
If she kept running, the tide would swallow everyone.
She needed a greater obstacle.
She gathered power again.
But not for Catch Flame.
Not for another fireball.
She had realized something.
Incantations responded to will.
So what was a prayer?
A plea to a god?
To whom had she ever prayed?
She did not know.
She focused only on the Golden Seal.
The power did not descend from some deity.
It came from her.
Grace had poured knowledge into her mind.
She channeled it.
Like the Tarnished in the game—
They could wield miracles of opposing gods simultaneously.
Because they learned them.
Belief—
Was the key.
If one believed with unyielding will—
Miracles followed.
Even belief in oneself.
So why not push further?
Incantations were created once.
They could be shaped again.
She had already controlled the size of flame—
From spark to inferno.
Why not shape?
Why not duration?
Energy pooled in her palm.
Flame formed—
But did not burst forth.
It stretched—
A slender tongue of fire.
She swung her arm.
The fiery strand whipped outward—
Detached—
Struck the ground—
And rose.
A wall.
A roaring wall of flame.
It cut off the street.
It devoured vision.
Skaven who could not halt ran straight into it—
And ignited.
Screaming, rolling, burning.
Mia did not look back.
She sprinted to rejoin the fleeing crowd.
She knew the wall would not last long.
But for now—
It bought them time.