Chaos

The sun had begun its slow descent beyond the jagged Nyxorian cliffs, bleeding a dusky orange across the horizon. Shadows stretched like claws over the field, cloaking the ridges and hollow valleys that separated the two waiting armies. An eerie calm hung in the air—the kind that came before a storm, when even the birds knew to silence themselves.

Triston sat astride his black warhorse, still and silent as a statue carved from obsidian. The wind tugged at the dark braids in his hair and the edges of his cloak, but he made no move, no sound. The fresh scar in his shoulder pulsing with each breath. Behind him, the Elyrian soldiers waited in tense silence, their hands tightening on sword hilts, arrows notched loosely to bowstrings.

“Should we give the order to engage?” Jaxon asked.

Triston didn't answer with words, instead he gave a curt nod. Jaxon whipped his horse around and ride through the ranks, disappearing into the back. And then the silence shattered.

Fom the eastern tree lin