The battlefield was glowing.
Not with fire. Not with magic.
With hope.
Lucian Vire stood in the center of it all—his white-blade drawn, his silver cloak torn from the winds, and his eyes fixed on the horizon as the second sun crested over the war-torn plains of Velmir. He wasn't just the strongest among them—he was the heart. The people didn't bow to the Council. They bowed to him.
They called him The Lightbringer.
His sword, Elion, pulsed with radiant energy—etched with ancient runes, whispered by gods long dead. The steel glowed each time he exhaled, alive like it shared his breath. And today, it would taste war again.
In his ear, a voice echoed through the comm crystal embedded in his armor. It was sharp, emotionless—typical of the Council.