The great capital of Harnas, Dabur, was built like a fortress. High stone walls loomed over the winding streets, their weathered surfaces scarred by past wars. Towers jutted into the sky like spears, their banners whipping in the dry evening wind. The streets, once teeming with merchants, musicians, and drunkards, now lay eerily quiet. The scent of cooked meat and spice, once thick in the air, had thinned. The capital—his capital—was suffocating under the weight of war.
At the heart of the city, the royal palace stood like a monument to forgotten glory. Its columns, carved with images of past kings, seemed to sneer down at the ruler who now sat on the lion-shaped throne.
King Zathor ran a clawed hand down his furred chin. His golden eyes, usually sharp and commanding, were clouded with doubt. The tips of his feline ears twitched at every distant sound—shouts from guards, hurried footsteps of his ministers outside, the dull hum of an anxious city.
