The rebirth of the Ashlands was no longer rumor.
Where once black glass plains stretched in lifeless expanse, now green furrows broke through the soot.
Wheat rose where nothing had grown for centuries.
Rivers, once poisoned by volcanic runoff, ran clear.
Cities that had been little more than half-buried ruins now rang with hammer and bell.
Foundries smoked day and night, shaping the bones of a new industry.
And all of it under Dawnhaven's banner.
It was impossible to ignore.
So they came.
The human houses, proud, fractious, each ruling their own petty domain, sent their envoys across the marches to Dawnhaven.
Caravans crawled through the gates.
Silk-draped litters, wagons armored in silvered steel, horses bred for war.
They came with crests on their cloaks and their voices dripping honey, yet every step they took into the reborn Ashlands tasted of ash in their mouths.
For here was proof that Ferrondel had done what none of them had dared attempt.
