The northern sky bled with fire. The battlefield outside Virelith’s northern bastion reeked of iron and ash, the snow beneath the boots of soldiers blackened by soot and splattered crimson from fallen men. The fortress of Kharrow’s End loomed over the desolation—its walls jagged stone, half-buried beneath frost, yet still defiant against both enemy sieges and the decay of time. War banners snapped violently in the wind, their sigils torn and ragged, as if mocking the men who had died beneath them. Crows circled above, their wings cutting black shapes against the dying sun, awaiting their feast.

Within the encampment, the air carried a different heaviness. Smoke from the war-fires clung to every fabric, and whispers coiled through the tents like serpents: of betrayal, of curses, of the bloodline that ruled them all. The men, hardened and scarred, kept their heads low when the Duke passed. His presence was an omen - The Warhound of the North, Thorne Virelith, the man who had never lost a battle, though every victory gnawed at his mind. His dark, wolf-like eyes were sunken, haunted by something deeper than war. The soldiers looked to him as both savior and specter, their breaths held when his boots scraped the frost.

Tonight, the court of war was restless. News had spread like wildfire: an attempt on King Kaelith’s life in the southern palace. The young tyrant survived, but blood was spilled, and suspicion seeped through loyalty like poison. Some claimed rebels, others whispered treachery from within. And in this storm, one name was muttered—the lowly servant, the girl whose soul could not be read by magic, who had walked among the brothers unseen by prophecy.

The tent of command was alight with feverish voices. Maps sprawled across the table, weighted by daggers, red lines marking where blood must next be shed. Commanders argued in hushed tones, eyes flicking to Thorne. But he sat silent at the head, gauntleted hand pressed to his temple, as though caging the curse threatening to consume him.