A gust of wind rolled across the valley floor, tugging at the half-raised banners and half-buried corpses in the distance. The war was not far behind them—it lingered in the scent of ash, blood, and ozone. But here, just beyond the charred plains, something else had begun.
A tent, not yet alive but breathing—its canvas flapping against the wind as arcane sigils stitched themselves across the cloth—was being rendered into shape by ten mages, their arms outstretched, weaving elements into form. The earth groaned beneath them, forced to become foundation. The tent poles sprouted from stone, thin and black, runed in old war-tongue. Heat shimmered at the edges where fire and light stitched the seams.
Inside, at the center, a table was growing.
It began as a simple mound of earth.
