Dawn Over Nagareth
The city that had once been called Vellore still carried the scent of smoke. Even after the rain had come in the night and washed the ash from the rooftops, a ghost of that scent lingered in the wind—burnt stone, metal, and memory.
Once, it had been the pride of the southern realm, the heart of trade, knowledge, and art. Now it was quieter—reborn, but scarred.
Nagareth.
That was its new name. The name spoken by every soldier who had fought beneath Leon Moonwalker's banner, the name whispered by those who had survived to see the sun rise again.
Morning light crept across the horizon, slow and golden, spreading through the battered streets. The city exhaled for the first time in what felt like years.
The ground still bore traces of the battle—the black stains of dried blood, the cracked pavements where cannonfire had struck, the shattered remnants of statues that once honored kings long gone. But where ruin had stood, hands now worked.
