They rode like a storm.
Nero and his new queen, Odette, perched atop the scaled back of an elder dragon that cut through the sky like a black mountain.
From that vantage the world—ravaged plains, smoking fortresses, and ranks of soldiers as far as the eye could see—was laid out like a map waiting to be redrawn.
Beneath them, a terrible clash raged: a vast host of undead poured from the earth, teeth bared and armor clanking, while millions of cultivators arrayed themselves in desperate formation.
Spells flared and war-cries split the air, but for every blade that bit, every sorcery that struck, the revenant legions seemed to shrug it off as if fashioned from shadow and bone alone.
It was a massacre measured in hope.
Nero watched the fray with the cool, patient gaze of one accustomed to waiting until a single move could decide a game.
