The morning sun did not break through the mist of the Sanatan peaks with its usual amber warmth. It rose cold and pale, casting long, razor-sharp shadows across the cracked, barren granite plains that stretched beyond the mountain gate. The wind that scraped past the eaves of the high roofs carried the lingering, metallic stench of scorched stone and dry ash, a silent testament to the devastation carved into the earth just days before.
Inside the quiet sanctuary of Shaurya's personal quarters, the world was stilled into an absolute, suffocating hush.
