A City Bleeds

The dawn never came for Virethorn.

What did arrive was fire.

Without warning, without mercy, the sky above the eastern stronghold tore open like flesh beneath a divine blade. Celestial storms burst through the heavens—wings of flame and halos of thunder cascading down from the clouds. The Stormbound had arrived. Not men. Not mortals. Not even angels.

War-forged, sanctified in the vaults of Ardent's will, they descended like a holy plague. Their armor shimmered with scripture, their blades sung with silent fury, and the air around them trembled with the weight of prophecy. The city, proud and old, born of flame alliances and rebel blood, stood little chance.

Captain Idrien, first to see them, died with her eyes still raised to the burning sky. She didn't scream. There wasn't time. One moment she was standing atop the watchtower. The next, she was ash.

Then came the screams.