The capital of Elandor glittered beneath a pale winter sun, its spires reaching skyward like spears of stone. From a distance, it was a jewel—walls of white marble, rooftops gilded with copper and slate. But within those walls, rot festered. Hunger gnawed at the poor, whispers of rebellion stirred in the taverns, and fear clung to the air like smoke.
At the heart of the city rose the Citadel of Thorns, seat of King Malrik. Its towers loomed over the capital like the claws of a predator, casting long shadows across the streets below.
Inside, the king sat upon a throne of black iron, his fingers drumming against the armrest.
Before him knelt the Captain of the Guard, armor scratched and dented from recent skirmishes. His head remained bowed, but his voice trembled as he spoke.
“The wagon
