It had been four days. Four long, collapsing days since anyone had heard from Azriel.
And in that span, four cities had fallen.
Ceridge's towers once glowed bright with artificer light—now swallowed in black fog. Durrel, the trade outpost by the cliffs, had crumbled with all its bridges severed. Pahric burned for two days straight. And Gralva, the last known haven, had gone silent without a trace of magic remaining in the air, and the major capitals of Neuraleth were next....
The Resistance fought hard. Brikka's beast had collapsed from exhaustion. Kessle hadn't slept. Gio lost hearing in one ear from the thunder-magic used by a underling in their last retreat. But none of it mattered.
Because Velmira had finally released her ace.
Each of her underlings now led battalions of Living Calamities, and every region of Neuraleth was being purged—not overrun, not defeated—purged. Entire populations erased like spilled ink wiped clean off parchment.
