That morning, the sky looked different. Thick mist still blanketed the mountains, creating a gray atmosphere that hung low as if the world itself was holding its breath. At the highest peak of the old castle, Sylvia stood firm, her cloak fluttering gently in the morning breeze. Her crimson eyes were sharp, fixed toward the north toward the Gate of Lurien that was being disturbed by human hands.
Below the castle, the zombie army moved slowly and irregularly, waiting for their queen's command. Thousands of zombies of varying strength stood silently. Some had intact bodies clad in light armor, while others were mere skeletons with dim green light glowing in their eye sockets. Yet all of them were still, patient, waiting for an order they understood through instinct and the magical bond that tied them to Sylvia.
"I never liked war," Sylvia muttered, softly enough that only the wind heard. "But you brought this upon yourselves."
