A few days ago, before the meeting of the Monarchs—
Nox stood at the edge of a half-frozen clearing, his clothes stained with dark blood belonging to the corrupted beast he had slain.
A faint layer of sweat clung to his brow, though the cold air bit at his skin. His breaths came slow and ragged as he stared down at the fresh corpse of a Scourge Drake, its body still slightly covered in dark flames.
It had been the twenty-sixth one that day.
And he was exhausted.
The last few days had been war.
Not with nations.
Not even with enemies that spoke or planned.
But with beasts.
Every few hours, new corrupted dragons appeared, drawn by the stench of blood and the sound of battle. Some came alone, some in packs. Most fell before they could roar. A few—the stronger ones—pushed him harder, costing him wounds, mana, stamina, and precious time.
But of course, all of them died in the end.
And one by one, they were added to his growing legion.
