Return Of - Reckoning

Sir Roland sheathed his sword. “Twenty against a Daemon Prince of Nurgle? Those are not odds. That is an execution.”

Tomorrow, he would break the count. Or it would break him. return of reckoning

“We cannot hold the Festering Court with a hundred spears and a prayer! Where are the High Elf patrols? Where are the engineers from Nuln?” Sir Roland sheathed his sword

Either way, the reckoning was coming home. That is an execution

Sir Roland snatched the parchment, read it, and laughed—a bitter, cracking sound. “Thirty days? We will be lucky to hold thirty hours if the Rotfather marches.”

Sir Roland’s face was a mask of boiled leather and old ideals. “The beacons signal for aid that does not come.”

For a long moment, the Witch Hunter said nothing. Then her lips curled into something that was almost a smile. “His attention is fixed on the shrine of the Raven God in the lower crypts. He believes a great ritual will be complete by the next new moon. His warriors guard the upper halls, but the tunnels beneath—” She traced a line in the air. “There is a way. A flooded sewer passage that leads to his sanctum. No one uses it. The smell alone is a garrison.”