The central war tower rumbled softly as arcane arrays spun into action, scanning the incoming force with precision and speed. Dim blue light glowed from the analysis panels, casting strange shadows across the war room's stone walls.
Henriks stood still, a mountain of muscle wrapped in silent menace, eyes locked on the live projection hovering in the center of the command platform.
His gaze narrowed at the sight of nearly a thousand soldiers marching across the dry plains in perfect formation. Dust churned beneath their synchronized steps, creating a rolling veil that trailed them like a funeral shroud.
From a distance, it was an awe-inspiring sight—one that could stir dread into lesser hearts.
But something felt… off.
The soldiers at the front line, the ones leading the march, looked visibly different. Their formation was tight, but their faces betrayed them—pale, anxious, their brows slick with sweat despite the wind cutting across the open terrain.
