The city was drowning in fire and screams when the sky went black.
Lan stood upon the highest point of the capital's chapel, a dark silhouette carved against the heavens. His cloak snapped in the dead wind, his eyes pale and sharp as blades. The moonlight vanished, consumed by a swirling storm that seemed to grow from his very presence.
From the clouds, rods of shadow and steel began to form. First a dozen. Then a hundred. Then a thousand, long spears of night that stretched from horizon to horizon, poised like arrows upon a bowstring.
Each pulsed faintly with killing intent, the air trembling with the weight of them.
Below, the streets grew still.
The battle halted. Even the clash of steel and the cries of the dying faltered into silence as both armies—Solaris defenders and Lanard's dwindling host alike—lifted their eyes.