Crimson hair, crimson eyes—Kury stood like a blood-forged flame against the graying sky. Her armor, polished yet battle-worn, bore the sigil of her father's house: a roaring stag wreathed in flame. Beside it fluttered the banner of Berkimhum, stitched in silk but hardened by centuries of war. Her presence alone seemed to anchor the battlefield, her shadow long and unmoving beneath the dull light of a cloud-strewn sky.
The wind tugged at the edges of her cloak. It snapped like a war drum behind her, restless and constant. She could taste iron in the air—not from blood, not yet—but from the tension, the electric anticipation before all hell would break loose. Her fingers curled and uncurled at her sides, the weight of her blade a familiar pressure at her hip.
Beside her stood Denish.
