The lands south of Brassvale were never kind to anyone.
Red. Arid. Cracked like the withered skin of an ancient being deprived of water. By day, the heat could bake an egg upon a stone. By night, the cold bit deep into the bone. No trees grew here—only thorny thickets and stunted cacti that clung to life by some inexplicable means. This land was a graveyard for those not strong enough to endure. And now, it served as the stage for thousands of soldiers awaiting the command to kill.
General Azhar stood atop a small ridge, staring northward. His eyes, the color of glowing orange embers, narrowed as he tried to pierce through the heat haze dancing on the horizon. In the distance, he could barely discern the silhouettes of the mountains that formed the natural border between Ignis-Sol and Brassvale. Beyond those peaks lay Vorkund. The capital of Brassvale. The very heart of his enemy.
"How much longer?" he asked without turning.
