The fog rolls in like a ghost army, conjured by the white robes mages of the Holy Church who stand solemn and unmoving at the four corners of the archery range. They chant in soft, reverent voices, weaving dense banks of holy mist across the field with every flick of their crosiers. The final words of the incantation echo like bells through the thickening air, sealing the arena in an eerie silence. From the high marble galleries, nobles lean forward, fanning themselves nervously as the world below disappears into smoke.
The Archery Semifinals of the 115th Grand Thalorian Tourney have begun.
The field, once proud and bright beneath the sun, is now swallowed whole. Where once birds flew, now shadows stir. And the contestants? They can barely see the tips of their arrows.
Trumpets blare. T
