The full moon hung high above Dreadspire Fortress, its silver light spilling across the blood-soaked courtyard like a mournful tide. The cobblestones glistened red, still wet from Lucien's latest conquest—the High Inquisitor of Vel'Dakar, now a broken heap at his feet, his once-gleaming armor cracked open like a brittle shell. The air was thick with the metallic tang of blood and the acrid bite of scorched magic, a testament to the carnage that had unfolded under the Tyrant's unrelenting will.
The war was escalating, its shadow creeping across the continent like a plague.
Lucien wiped the blood from his chin with a slow, deliberate motion, his crimson cloak snapping in the wind as it shifted, carrying the faint howl of distant storms. Behind him, dozens of soldiers knelt in unison, their armor clinking like a chorus of submission. Their faces were obscured by helms, but their loyalty was palpable, a living force that pulsed in the air.
