The sky above the Southern hills was bruised with heavy clouds, a deep charcoal spreading like a slow wound across the horizon. The wind whipped through the tall grass, bending blades and carrying with it the scent of distant fires and iron. Ryon stood on the crest of the tallest hill, his cloak torn and dusted with ash from the latest battle, his gaze fixed on the scattered fires of the camps below. The faces around him were worn and determined—warriors, mages, and outcasts united by a shared resolve to shatter the chains that had bound their land for too long.
The journey to this point had been fraught with peril. Since escaping the council's relentless hunters, they had moved like ghosts through the shadows, gathering the scattered remnants of resistance. Some joined out of loyalty, others out of desperation, but all understood the stakes: failure meant the complete subjugation of the South, a land consumed by tyranny and forgotten by time.
