The desert sun was merciless, beating down on the scorched sands of the Suntouched Confederacy's northern border. But the heat in the war tent of Councilor Zahir Al-Fariq was of a different, colder kind. It was the chill of utter, humiliating defeat.
"Annihilated," he whispered, his voice a dry rasp. He stared at the scrying mirror, which showed a scene of carnage. The smoking remains of his finest legion, the Sunstone Scimitars, were scattered across the entrance to the Sunstone Pass. Their blessed blades were broken, their golden armor blackened and shattered.
General Khalid, his face a mask of grim disbelief, stood beside him. "We… we never stood a chance, Councilor. They had… weapons. Artifacts. Shields of pure light that our sun-lances couldn't pierce. Projectors that unleashed a fire that was… holy. It burned hotter than the desert sun."
