The sun rises again the next day over the bloodless battlefield of Thaloria’s melee arena, though none within its walls mistakes it for peace.The weapons, shields and banners of the preliminary melee has already been cleared off and cleaned, as if no fierce melee has been fought the day before.
The air thrums with anticipation. Spectators whisper names like prayers, or curses, Frostmark, Seafyre, Dragonfyre, and Blackmoor. Four titans now stand where once hundreds had brawled.
The melee semifinals has begun.
On the eastern side of the arena, Frostmark gathers in silent unity, pale cloaks rippling in the morning breeze. They move like snowdrifts: quiet, inevitable, deadly. Their shields, painted with deceptive artistry to resemble ancient oak and iron, are in truth, forged in modern for
