Evening had fallen over the dwarven capital, but the sky above the outer gates blazed like a dawn forged of war.
A violent storm of mana churned in the air — wind spiraling, frost forming mid-air, and sparks of lightning skittering along invisible seams of power. At the heart of that roaring turbulence floated a woman whose very presence bent reality around her.
White hair cascaded down her back like a river of moonlight.
A thin, silken veil covered the lower half of her face.
But her eyes —
Her eyes were lightening.
Storm- thunder eyes crackled with arcs of lightning, trembling with a fury so cold it burned.
And facing her were seven dwarves suspended in the air, their beards billowing like banners of war, their ceremonial armor glowing with molten runes. Elder Thrain stood at their center, his presence heavier than a falling mountain, his eyes flashing with fire he wasn't bothering to hide.
He didn't shout. He didn't even raise his chin.
