The wind blew cold that morning in Asgard.
The sound of hammers echoed in the distance—a constant, metallic rhythm, almost like the pulsating heart of the new city. The sun, still pale, slowly rose behind the rebuilt walls, casting its light on the scaffolding, the golden banners, and the emblem fluttering above the main fortress: the symbol of a raven
enveloped in ancient runes.
Strax sat on the edge of a high roof, legs crossed, his black cloak billowing behind him like a living shadow. From there, he could see almost the entire extent of the city. The new districts, the makeshift tents, the columns still being erected… and, in the center of the training yard, more than fifty men awaiting instructions.
It was a curious sight—a sea of warriors from all corners of the continent. Mercenaries, former soldiers, adventurers without a banner, and even some fugitives seeking a new beginning. They had all heard the same rumor:
