The grove is chaos, smoke thick in the air, the crackle of fire mixing with the screams of panicked voices. Minthara’s warband surges through the gates, steel and spell flashing in the night. Refugees scatter, clutching children, while Tieflings scramble to form what defence they can.

Dammon is already there. Not with sword or shield, but with the same hammer he uses to shape metal in his forge. His sleeves are rolled, his stance set firm, a living wall between the charging goblins and the cluster of little ones huddled behind him. His jaw is clenched, soot and sweat streaking his face, and the way his hand grips the hammer leaves no doubt; this is no tool now, but a weapon.

“Nobody takes them while I draw breath,” he snarls, the words rough as iron dragged across stone.

A goblin lunges, and Dammon meets it with a swing born of fury and necessity, the hammer crunching through bone with a sound that silences the jeering around him. The children behind him sob.

You push through the smoke to his side, weapon in hand. His eyes flick to you, sharp and burning with something deeper than fear, something between resolve and desperation, the unyielding need to protect what little he can in a world already taking too much.

“Stay close,” he grits, teeth bared as he raises the hammer again, blood already staining his shirt. “We hold here. They'll run out of ground soldiers eventually.”