The morning came with a sky choked in smoke, the sun a blood-orange disc behind the haze. Ash fell like snow on the southern plains as the unified army of the Matriarchy moved northward—marching not with the arrogance of conquerors, but the grim determination of those who knew they were heading toward something none of them fully understood. Ryon rode at the front of the vanguard, his expression carved from cold resolve, the twin forces of fire and frost simmering beneath his skin like living armor.
Behind him, the banners of every southern house rose proudly: crimson, violet, obsidian, and gold. The warrior-sisters of Ember Coast, the frost-speakers of Veynos, the blade-born of Thresh Hal. They had never marched together before. It was the kind of unity people had died for generations dreaming of. Now it was forged not by politics—but by the unshakable instinct that something worse than the North was coming.
