The dawn broke over the Bloodbane Empire's capital with a fierce, crimson glow, as if the sky itself bled for the war to come.
The training grounds, once chaotic with preparations, now stood solemn—an iron-clad sea of knights in polished armor, their shields aligned like scales on a dragon's back.
The air was sharp with the bite of early morning frost, mingling with the metallic tang of oiled steel and the faint musk of horseflesh.
Banners bearing the Bloodbane crest—a snarling black dragon on a crimson backdrop—snapped in the wind, their colors stark against the pale stone of the castle walls.
Today marked the final day—the eve of the Akerian campaign—and every soul in the courtyard felt the weight of it, a pressure that pressed against the chest, heavy as a warhammer.
At the heart of it all stood Arkanos, clad in black and gold armor that drank the dawn's light, its intricate engravings of thorns and stars glinting only when he moved.
