Third person's POV
The army stretched across the horizon like a river of vengeance.
Wolf Lords in silver-plated furs.
Iceblood assassins cloaked in frost.
Eastern rebels, exiled mages, broken nobles—those who had nothing left to lose marched for Camila.
At the front, she rode a midnight mare, black cloak rippling, hand resting on the hilt of her flame-tempered blade. Her armor was reforged from her mother's funeral steel, inlaid with the sigil of the phoenix.
And beside her—Nathaniel.
Silent. Loyal. Watching.
But something dark clung to his expression.
A weight Camila felt even as she led thousands to war.
The Rift wasn't a place. It was a scar.
A deep, endless canyon where the veil between realms was thinnest. Where the Deep Ones had once clawed their way into the world—only to be sealed again by the Flameborn bloodline.
And now… they stirred.
As they approached, the skies darkened unnaturally.
Birds died mid-flight.
Trees wept sap as black as ink.
