The world seemed to have lost its voice, swallowed by an unnatural, suffocating vacuum that defied the laws of nature. In the heart of the Lamping plains—a land that once sang with the rustle of emerald grass but now lay charred and withered—General Haelir felt something colder than death crawling up his throat. It was a sensation of absolute powerlessness, a primal dread that bypassed the brain and struck directly at the soul. He tried to scream, to exert the formidable will that had led a thousand campaigns, but his jaw muscles refused to obey. The very atmosphere had transformed into a gelatinous, oppressive weight—like quick-drying cement—locking every joint of his ironwood armor into a statue of pathetic defiance.
Before him stood Dola.
