The sky rained fire. Flaming boulders of rock crashed into the courtyard of a ruined city, scattering civilians and soldiers alike. Dead riddled the streets, no longer friend or foe, only bodies charred by ash.
The palace gates were burned and askew, its royal flag tattered and hanging on by a thread, a pinnacle of power now humbled.
A man draped in a hooded, golden cloak wandered through the wreckage, his face scarred with markings in an ancient tongue, violet eyes unphased by the chaos.
He entered a cathedral, unharmed by the war outside, and a wary silence closed in around him. The altar was drowning in candles, memories of those lost, and he drew closer, candlelight reflecting the grief in his eyes, which turned to fear at the carving sitting among the flames.
On a tombstone, where a body would be laid, was a solitary wooden jackal, its beaded black eyes piercing into his.
The man’s breath shuddered as he held it, crushing its head under clenched fingers.
He threw it in the fire, watching with unbridled hate as it cracked and burned, succumbing to its fate.
Somewhere outside, a warning bell rang.
