The spring fog had begun to thin, yet the air remained heavy and cold.
Above the island of Nocture, the sky hung pale gray, like a sheet of frozen metal refusing to break. Below it, seas of mist drifted between the dead trees, veiling the wide plain where thousands of undead soldiers prepared for war.
The sounds of chains, heavy footsteps, and grinding steel filled the air. There were no war cries, no deafening horns, only the sound of a world holding its breath.
On a black hill at the island's heart, Sylvia stood tall. Her black gown swayed gently, her long hair danced in the chill wind that carried the scent of iron and damp soil. Behind her, rows of bluish-purple magical torches burned in a line, marking the route of her advancing forces. The black chains around her spun slowly, vibrating as if alive, sending waves of command across the entire battlefield.
"Divide into two main formations,"
