The sky over the battlefield darkened unnaturally, clouds dragging low as if the heavens themselves were being pulled into the war.
The moment Alessandro Moretti arrived, the world seemed to hold its breath.
A convoy of black vehicles cut through the ruined outskirts like a blade. The fighting didn't stop because orders were given, it stopped because fear spread faster than sound. Soldiers on both sides felt it: that cold, suffocating pressure that wrapped around the lungs and whispered death.
"The Serpent King," someone breathed.
Alessandro stepped out slowly, deliberately, as if the battlefield were his throne room. He wore no armor, only a long dark coat, immaculate despite the mud and blood beneath his feet. His silver-streaked hair caught the dim light, his face carved from cruelty and control.
Behind him stood his elite guard men trained from childhood, killers without hesitation. Wherever Alessandro walked, corpses followed.
Isabella felt it from the command ridge.
