Lightning crackling around her body, she zips across the battlefield. Chopping off a mans arm, she throws his spear at an enemy archer. The shaft buries itself in the archer's throat before he can loose his arrow. Briana doesn't pause—her boots skid through mud as she pivots, her sword carving through another attacker's ribs. The battlefield noise is deafening—steel on steel, screams, the wet crunch of bone—but her focus narrows to a single thought: *Find him.*
For the average man, tracking her is impossible.
But for the soldiers of hawkthorne, when their enemy was suddenly on the ground half dead, they had an idea. Soon chants began.
"THE HEIR OF HAWKTHORNE IS HERE."
