The Goblin Raider Queen

The Patriarch hangs motionless in his saddle, the brass horn buried in his chest. Around him, the noble riders wheel in the mud, shaken and leaderless, while violet roots pulse brighter along the camp edge.

Rozah stands in the churned center of it all, axe ready, as the riders look toward the Hooded Rider for orders. Old Snarl stays near the palisade, teeth bared, waiting to see whether the nobles break or lunge.

A few riders recoil at once. Others glare at Rozah, but their horses toss and stumble, matching their fear. The violet roots throb in time with the silence where the Patriarch's commands used to be.

The noble line wavers, no longer a charge but a retreat waiting to happen. The death of the Patriarch has cut the siege open, and the tribe can feel the battle turning toward survival.

Rozah roars and crashes forward, mud flying from her boots as the riders flinch at the sight of her coming. Her axe cuts through the space between horse heads, not hunting a single target, but breaking the line itself.

The nearest mounts wheel hard, shoulders colliding. One rider jerks his reins too late, and the neat arc of nobles splits open into uneven pockets of panic.

Old Snarl hammers a fist against the palisade and bares his teeth in savage approval. The violet roots flare brighter at the border, and that glow seems to shove fear deeper into the riders' ranks.

A pair of nobles turn their horses away from Rozah, then another follows, and the retreat ripples down the rest of the line. Mud sprays as they give ground in a broken rush.

Rozah drives straight through the gap they leave behind, and the camp front opens wide around her. The noble riders are no longer holding the line, they are running for it.