Inside the crystalline halls of the Royal Citadel, the throne room of Yurelia was in chaos.
Courtiers shouted. Advisors argued. The puppet King's face had gone pale, drenched in cold sweat as his trembling hands clutched the golden armrests of his throne.
"How did they breach our skies so quickly?" one minister cried, eyes darting wildly.
"The wards should have held. The Spire's defenses are ancient. Sacred!" another bellowed, grasping at faded hope.
But no amount of enchantments or historical prestige could stand against the fury now descending upon them.
A tremor shook the entire citadel.
One of the battleships had released a volley of mana-bombs. Their impact split apart mountaintops, turning them to floating ash. The sky, once blue and serene, had been stained red with fire trails and the silhouette of colossal war machines.
Puppet King Varelion staggered to his feet. His robes, woven from starlight silk, trailed behind him like a dying comet.
