Sylen's eyes jumped from one enemy to the next—his gaze torn between the phantom closing in from the front and the monster still dragging itself toward him from behind. Alex was approaching with speed, cold precision in every step. Varkos was slower, wounded, limping with every thunderous stomp, yet no less terrifying.
Two threats.
One dying man.
And only seconds to choose.
Panic stirred in Sylen's chest like a blade twisting through soft flesh. He felt it blooming beneath his ribs, fast and hot. His heartbeat surged, beating against his sternum like it was trying to escape the prison of his body. The battlefield blurred for a moment, his vision dipping into tunnel focus. Adrenaline spiked.
What do I do?
He was being flanked. Pressured from both ends. If he let himself be caught between the two, there'd be no space to fight—only space to die. He couldn't hold them both. Not now. Not like this.
