The sun rose wrong over Sunreach.
Not wrong in color.
Wrong in intent.
The light spilled across the plateau in harsh, unfiltered brilliance, burning away the cool shadow that had always clung to the highlands beneath layered shrine-wards. The old gods’ filters were gone. What remained was raw daylight—aloof, indifferent, merciless.
Sunreach stood exposed for the first time since its stone had been laid.
And three armies were already climbing its lower slopes.
The loyalist packs did not march as one.
They advanced in converging wedges, each under a different divine mandate, each claiming Heaven’s blessing while quietly competing for whose god would reclaim authority first.
Shrine-banners rippled along the ridgelines like territorial scars.
Sunreach’s King—still unused to the weight
