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Beneath a sky choked with ash, two armies crash like tidal waves. Steel screams. Fire roars. The earth shudders with every thunderous step of the war-golems, their stone fists cratering the battlefield. A lone figure weaves through the carnage—Lyra, her cloak billowing like a shadow given life. Arrows hiss past her, burying themselves in the mud where she stood moments ago. She doesn’t flinch. Her blade, slick with ichor, hums a hungry melody only she can hear. Across the fray, the warlord Vexhal raises his crimson axe, its edge glowing with runes of dissolution. Their eyes lock. No words. No grand taunts. Just the unspoken truth echoing between them: one of them dies here. Lyra’s fingers tighten around her sword hilt. The air crackles. The ground splits. And then—they move.
