The sky of Tenebris was a heavy gray, thick with dust that clung to faces and slipped under leather and metal armor. The air was saturated with that characteristic smell of rotting flesh and scorched dust, a scent of death that seemed to rise from the cracked earth itself.
At the head of his small army, Godwin Pendragon advanced with a confidence that bordered on madness. His two meters of taut muscle and imposing frame commanded a respectful silence from his troops. On his bare torso, exposed despite the stifling heat, his flame tattoos seemed to pulse in time with his impatience, while his vivid red hair evoked glowing embers ready to ignite.
His amber eyes with reptilian pupils swept the horizon with sovereign contempt. He hadn't digested the fact that his troops had been eliminated so easily… not because he cared about them, but because it had dealt a blow to his ego.
