The mages arrived, but it was different from what Drahon had anticipated.
He had expected war, brutality, and him doing some berserk things, but what his eyes met was simply shocking.
The mages arrived tattered and burned, their robes scorched at the hems, some stained with dried blood. Their faces were hollow with exhaustion, eyes sunken from days of travel and battle. Most clutched their staves like lifelines, though some were too injured to even stand straight.
Their armor, once decorated with glowing arcane sigils, now flickered dimly, magic nearly drained. A few still carried the scent of ash and smoke, the remnants of the battlefield clinging to them like a curse. Despite their condition, something fierce lingered in their eyes, perhaps remnants of pride, of loyalty to a kingdom that no longer stood.
Drahon stood facing them, guards flanking him from both sides, holding swords and shields, ready to strike if they noticed foul play.
