The sun rose lazily over Kaelthur, tinging the horizon with hues of gold and gray.
The chilly wind carried the familiar scent of freshly cut stone, charred wood, and magic—a blend typical of cities rising from the ashes.
Every street vibrated with the sounds of rebuilding: hammers banging, workers' voices, sustaining spells being cast by exhausted but determined mages.
Strax walked alone, his hands in his pockets, his black cloak dragging softly on the uneven ground.
There were no bodyguards, no servants, not even one of his wives at his side—just him and the distant pulse of a city breathing again.
Kaelthur was alive. Bruised, patched, but alive.
And as much as the pride within him smiled at the sight, there was also a certain unease… as if something within the demon still found it strange to see order where there had once been chaos.
He passed a group of workers attempting to erect a stone column—three humans and two elves, aided by stabilization magic.
