Pushing aside the flaps of his tent, Count Rimmon Wyvern stormed out with long, urgent strides. His heart pounded in his chest, his breath quickening as he made his way to the ridge overlooking the battlefield.
Then he saw it.
His eyes went wide, pupils shrinking to pinpricks. The sky was a canvas of chaos—flaming boulders arced through the air like falling stars, blackening the clouds in their wake. Arrows rained down in thick sheets, almost blotting out the sky. Below, the camp was a writhing massacre: wolves, lean and blood-flecked, tore through screaming men.
And then came the cavalry.
Hulking warriors rode in, mounted on beasts that seemed pulled from the pages of myth—massive hybrids of eagle and bear, with thunderous wings and furred limbs that pounded the earth. Their riders horned helmets, their armours too dark to reflect light, and their lances punched through plate and leather alike, impaling two, three men in a single charge.
