The skies loomed dark, shunning the stars. Even the twin moons—so often bold—were tucked behind ghost-pale clouds, casting a dull, sickly light over the land.
Asher sat astride Velmorne at the edge of a ridge, kilometres from the battlefield, yet the roars of men, the clash of steel, and the tremors of the earth all reached him. He could feel the heat of war, as if it were a living thing breathing against his skin.
Reflected in his golden, glowing eyes were thousands—no, tens of thousands—charging like waves towards a war-beaten castle wall. Like sand rushing to drown the shore, they stormed forward without hesitation.
The once-proud spiral towers of the stronghold lay shattered, likely crumbled beneath the relentless weight of catapult boulders. The banners of House Nubis hung limply from the colossal wall, torn and stained crimson. Most of that blood belonged to the defenders.
