"Let any threat come—Nihil, or any foul calamities. Eryndor will stand!"
The small bastion of Eryndor stood defiant on the edge of Fathomi's shattered plains, its walls of reinforced obsidian gleaming under the fractured light of a crimson sky.
The air was thick with the scent of ash and molten metal, the ground scarred from past skirmishes of an unknown force that appeared to be conjured from an unknown position, bombarding the bastion with relentless pace.
But despite all of the attack, none of the conjured calamities appeared to be truly wanting to destroy or kill any of the inhabitants.
As if they were there to put on mental pressure and fatigue the residents.
Eryndor's inhabitants—hardened warriors, mages, and artificers clad in rune-etched armor—gathered in the central courtyard, their faces grim but resolute.
