The island trembled as if something ancient and enraged had stirred beneath its crust. The once calm shoreline churned with waves the size of hills, crashing into the obsidian cliffs with the sound of distant war drums. High above, the trees bent like frightened servants, their limbs twisting under the weight of a wind that howled not from nature, but from something unseen and vengeful. Ash leapt from the earth, carried on gusts, mixing with mist and fog until the world turned into a gray void. Shapes became silhouettes. Paths became whispers. The air tasted of metal and sorrow.
The Golden Armada was moving faster and with all the courage of an army of fanatics not fearing for their lives or wellbeing, trusting in the embrace and forgiveness of a holy and higher power.
The ships cruised through the high tide and massive waves, supported by eldritch power that bore and broke through the enemy's attacks.
