The Devil King's domain had always been a place where color went to die.
A land swallowed in permanent twilight—stone blackened by sulfur, sky smothered by ash, the air itself tasting of metal and ancient curses. But now… now it was worse. Much worse.
Three weeks of continuous war had turned the battlefield into a wasteland of shattered cliffs and pulverized earth. Rivers of molten stone ran between cracked battlements like open wounds. Every breath scraped the throat like shards of iron. Every step felt like sinking into the world's dying heartbeat.
Kaelion's vanguard, the strongest fighting force Edolas still possessed, looked like ghosts of their former selves. Armor was dented and hanging by straps; shields were split down the middle. Many had wrapped leather around their hands to keep their weapons from slipping out of blood-slick grips.
And still—they fought.
They resisted.
They endured.
But only barely.
