The sky above the Blighted Highlands was an unbroken expanse of grey—lifeless, still. No wind stirred. No birds flew. The land itself seemed to hold its breath, as though afraid of what lay ahead.
Zephyr stood on a ridge, overlooking the Citadel of Rot—once a noble fortress, now twisted by decay. Vines of blackened bone wound around its towers. Pools of corrupted mana bubbled in the trenches. And atop its highest spire, a sigil burned—the mark of Vaelith, Harbinger of Decay.
"We ride before dawn," Zephyr said, eyes fixed on the citadel. "No speeches. No mercy."
Around him stood his warband: Seraphina, flames simmering at her fingertips; Zahra, silent and focused, her twin blades glinting; Elara, clutching her staff with tense resolve; and Commander Vale, a grizzled warrior of the north, clad in runed plate.
"What's the plan?" Vale asked, arms crossed. "That place reeks of death. You want a full assault?"
