The forest of Cassia in autumn was akin to a cathedral of decay.
Golden leaves fell in silent, endless spirals, carpeting the forest floor in layers of amber and rust. The air was cold, damp, thick with the smell of earth and the sweet, quiet rot of the season.
Arzhen moved through it alone.
His boots sank into the wet mulch with each step, the sound a soft, rhythmic squelch that accompanied his steady, purposeful gait. Above him, skeletal branches clawed at a sky the colour of old pewter. No birds sang. The forest held its breath, watching the trespasser indifferently.
He should have been excited.
This was the moment he had been waiting for. His rise to power.
Here, in this forgotten stretch of woodland, miles from any road or village, lay the corpse of the Dragon Lord. The mighty Oathran Alicei, sovereign of the skies, fallen and forgotten in a ditch.
He should have been thrilled.
Instead, his chest felt like a hollow drum.
