They struck under the veil of moonless nights. Small bands at first — sabotage missions, poisoned wells, assassinations of city engineers. But then, the flames came.
Border towns like Drosmoor and Elythis were set ablaze by rogue battalions claiming no banner. Supply routes were bombed with rune-explosives reverse-engineered from stolen plans. Even the sky grew unkind, as weather mages from Velgrad called down hail over newly planted fields.
Sharath stood on the parapets of Vayanora, cloaked in winds and worry.
"They're not attacking our soldiers," he said to Elina, whose hands clutched his in silent horror. "They're attacking our progress."
General Thyron arrived with grim news. "Reports from the north. They've used plague-glyphs in the irrigation wells."
Children fell sick. Old women wept over blackened crops. The Lord of Innovation watched a world he'd built with bare hands crack at the seams — not from incompetence, but fear-driven hatred.
Sharath convened his war council.
"We respond," growled one commander.
"No," said Sharath. "We rethink."