The northern border outpost looked less like a fortress and more like the corpse of a kingdom refusing to die.
Jagged black walls clung to the mountainside like broken teeth, half-swallowed by volcanic stone and ash. Rivers of molten lava carved glowing veins through the cliffs below, casting the entire region in a dim crimson light. Smoke curled endlessly into the sky, staining the clouds black.
It was the perfect hiding place for rebels.
And the perfect graveyard.
Cairis rode at the head of the strike force in absolute silence.
Fifty elite warriors followed behind him in tight formation, their obsidian armor reflecting the firelight beneath the mountains. No one spoke unless spoken to. No one dared break the tension hanging over the group.
The Demon King radiated violence tonight.
Not the cold, controlled cruelty the court had grown used to over the past weeks.
This was worse.
This felt unstable.
