The twilight sky above Aryavrata's capital was streaked with the remnants of smoke and fading embers from a battle that had shaken the world. In the silent fields beyond the capital walls, fractured portals began to open — circular rips of shimmering magic lined with ancient Aryavratan runes.
One by one, figures stumbled through.
Bloodied. Broken. Barely standing.
The few remaining soldiers of Aryavrata and its allied nations — those who had survived the wrath of Zorwath — emerged through the spatial gates carved by emergency runes. These weren't teleportation scrolls for victory; they were escape paths — drawn in desperation when the enemy's blade came too close.
The capital's gates opened slowly. No fanfare. No cheers.
Just silence.
City guards and priests stood in stunned reverence as the survivors walked through. Many leaned on one another. Some carried the wounded on makeshift stretchers. Others… carried the dead.
