Drakar stood atop the broken spire of what had once been the grandest castle in the Bloodburn Kingdom, the ruins beneath him now crawling with life once more—not the lives of those who had built and cherished it, but the merciless troops of his mighty army.
His broad, jet-black wings stretched out restlessly, the leathery membranes twitching periodically in a silent rhythm of impatience and controlled anger.
The cold wind whipped at his black hair, but he paid it no mind. His fiery dark red eyes surveyed the encampment that sprawled out in every direction, a harsh contrast to the once-proud kingdom now reduced to broken stone, smoldering embers, and crude military tents.
Each tent, each training ground, each structure below had been rebuilt from the ashes of Bloodburn—transformed into a dark reflection of his power and dominance.
