The sky was red.
Not the crimson of a setting sun, nor the gentle hue that painted the horizon during the last moments of daylight.
It was the color of blood—thick, suffocating, and merciless—spreading across the heavens like a wound that refused to close.
Smoke drifted over the battlefield, carrying the stench of burnt flesh and iron. Broken flags lay scattered across the mud, their embroidered crests buried beneath the bodies of soldiers who would never return to their homes.
The wind had stopped.
Even the crows were silent.
Cathain stood in the middle of it all.
His black armor was cracked along the shoulder, its polished surface dulled by blood and ash. His crimson cape dragged behind him, torn at the edges and heavy with the grime of war.
The sword in his hand had become so familiar that he barely noticed its weight anymore.
He had held it for so long.
To protect his empire.
To defend his people.
To preserve the life he had sworn to safeguard.
