The mounts clear the iron gates at full speed.
Heavy crossbow bolts scream past us from the ramparts above—not aimed at us. Aimed at the fins trailing behind.
The shooters on the walls fire, reload, and fire again with the bored precision of people who do this three times a week. Each bolt trails a tethered rope that goes taut the second it hits sand, anchoring the sharks in place long enough for the gates to slam shut.
Not a single bolt lands within ten feet of our sliders. These people have their geometry down to an art.
I'm off my slider before the dust settles, sprinting back toward Oliver.
He's on the ground, both hands clamped around his left calf, teeth bared. The blood is pulsing between his fingers in thick, rhythmic surges—arterial.
Bad, but manageable…
I drop to my knees, rip the sleeve off my leather jacket, and twist it tight above the wound.
"Hold this. Don't let go."
