Prologue

The battlefield was a grim tableau of death and despair. The ground beneath the soldiers' feet was a muddy, blood-soaked sludge, the air thick with the stench of iron and smoke. Bodies lay scattered like broken dolls, their armor shattered, their faces frozen in expressions of terror and agony. Some were torn limb from limb, their limbs strewn about like discarded toys. Others bore wounds that defied explanation—gaping holes in their chests, or skin blackened and cracked as if burned from within.

In the distance, the sun dipped below the horizon, casting the field in an eerie, blood-red glow. The silence was deafening, broken only by the occasional groan of a dying soldier or the caw of carrion birds circling overhead. Then, the ground began to tremble.

At first, it was faint—a low rumble like distant thunder. But it grew louder, more insistent, until the earth itself seemed to shudder. From the horizon, a shadow emerged—a massive, hulking figure, its silhouette twisted and unnatural. Then another. And another.

The "Divs" had come.

They moved with a slow, deliberate pace, their grotesque forms illuminated by the dying light. Their skin glistened like oil, and their eyes burned with a malevolent glow. Some carried crude weapons—massive clubs studded with spikes or jagged blades that dripped with a black, tar-like substance. Others had no need for weapons; their claws and teeth were enough.

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As they drew closer, the air grew colder, and a sense of dread settled over the battlefield like a suffocating blanket. One of the wounded soldiers tried to crawl away, his breath coming in ragged gasps. A Div noticed him and let out a guttural laugh, a sound that sent chills down the spine of anyone who heard it. With a single, effortless motion, it reached down and crushed the soldier’s skull like an eggshell.

The Divs quickened their pace, their laughter echoing across the field like the howl of a storm. Their destination was clear: City of  Zar, the gleaming capital of Azharian, its golden gates visible on the horizon. The city had stood for centuries, a symbol of the kingdom’s power and glory. But now, as the Divs marched toward it, that glory seemed fragile, fleeting.

Somewhere in the city, a bell began to toll—a warning, a plea, or perhaps a funeral dirge. The Divs quickened their pace, their laughter echoing across the field like the howl of a storm.

Ashkbos, the commander of the Azharian army, sank to his knees, his eyes filled with regret. He turned to the thin, bearded man standing beside him and said, “You were right, Tahmasb. I should have listened to you years ago... I fear it’s too late now.”

Ashkbos closed his eyes and remembered a simpler time, ten years ago, when the world had felt safer, when the shadows had not yet begun to creep in.