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The sun dipped below the horizon, casting amber streaks across the sky as four figures emerged from the shadows of the crumbling cathedral. Each carried a legacy etched into their posture—a gunslinger with scarred knuckles and a revolver humming forgotten hymns, a rogue alchemist whose vials glowed with stolen starlight, a stormcaller trailing static in her wake like a loyal hound, and a scholar-warrior whose tome pulsed with bound demons she’d outwitted in games of riddles. Their boots crunched over gravel, united not by loyalty but necessity: the world had unraveled, and the only map left was scrawled in blood-oaths and half-truths. Whispers claimed the last sanctuary lay beyond the Iron Veil, a realm where time frayed at the edges. They’d trade secrets, blades, and maybe souls to reach it—trust was currency, but survival was the religion. Tomorrow’s battles would demand more than steel; they’d need the weight of every lie they’d ever sold as truth.
