From the icy mist he was born. And from the carbon smoke he was reborn.

His boots thudded with each step he took. His footsteps thundered, echoing off of the now desecrated Vale. He wasn't here to watch it crumble to the ground like the dust it was born from. He was there to prevent what was happening, from happening. It wasn't going how he imagined--no--planned it would follow through. This would go down in the history books, for worse or worst--no--as a catastrophe of such cataclysmic fallout that would revoke his position as General of the Atlesian Military, Headmaster of Atlas Academy, and both of his seats on the Atlesian Council.

You might be reading a stolen copy. Visit Royal Road for the authentic version.

This was why it was stopping here, by James Ironwood's own damn doing.