A few scattered mercenaries burst from the shattered gate like spooked deer, boots thudding over churned mud and shattered timber. Panic whipped their senses raw—every groan of charred beam sounded like a pursuing demon, every flutter of ash a hidden blade. They ran blind, desperate to escape the nightmare they'd awoken to: comrades raised as skeletal thralls, command tents aflame, and a silent thing in black stalking through corridors where even sound dared not linger.
Draven stepped from the narrowing shadows between two leaning towers, the crimson of a half-risen sun washing his cloak in dull embers. He lifted one gloved hand, the gesture unhurried, almost conversational—as if signaling a waiter instead of condemning men to death. Runes beneath the leather kindled, their lines glowing a cold sapphire that bled into the creases of his palm.
