The first light of dawn never came.
Above the world, the sky had turned violet-black, choked with clouds heavy with unnatural stormlight. No sun dared pierce the veil that Azael Veyrith had summoned. No birds dared sing. The very air hung tense and unmoving, as if the world itself held its breath.
And far below the blackened heavens, the gates of the obsidian fortress groaned open.
Azael stood atop the grand platform carved into the mountainside, her crimson robes trailing behind her like liquid fire, her golden eyes gleaming with war-born focus. Behind her, the great banners of her empire unfurled black cloth embroidered with the sigil of the Sovereign: a serpent of shadows coiled around a bleeding crown.
Stretching out before her, as far as the eye could see, were her armies.
