The sky was black.
Not from nightfall, but from smoke.
The horizon was no longer a straight line of mountains and clouds, but a rising storm of ash and marching shadows.
The massive forces of the underworld had finally surfaced, dozens of monstrous creatures, cloaked assassins, war beasts, and dark-armored elites standing like jagged teeth along the old stone valley beneath the Imperial walls.
At the very front of that army, walking calmly through the haze of burning banners and crumbling trees, was a single figure.
Silver-haired.
Eyes narrowed.
Cloak torn and trailing behind him.
Aestrea.
His boots crushed bones and cinders alike, the hem of his coat dragging through bloodstains, fresh and old.
On either side of him stood Underworld Generals, twisted warriors with spears, blades, and dark magic pulsing in their eyes, but not one of them dared walk ahead of him.
He was at the vanguard, leading the entire army.
"Form the spearhead. We're opening the gates ourselves."
