The sky split with flame and snow as the battlefield unfolded.
The tent had long since collapsed, torn apart by a tide of fear and soul pressure. What remained was the open northern field, ringed with burning wagons and scattered corpses, soldiers slipping on frost and blood as they fled the center of the storm.
And in the middle of it all, King Aldric still sat unmoving.
He was still as a carved statue atop his war chair—its frame shaped of black steel and wolfbone. His red-gold armor gleamed, impossibly clean, the lion crest of Solaris burning like a brand across his chest.
His crown was no diadem but a circlet of jagged crimson ore forged in dragon flame, worn low on his brow. He watched with the gaze of a god-king.
Detached. Absolute. Waiting.
Two figures stepped forward from his sides.
