The signal came not in words, but in fire.

Above, Soldraknirr descended, its wings blotting out the sun, casting an ominous shadow over the battlefield. A pulse of raw energy rippled through the air, an unspoken herald of the storm to come. The Emberclad Legions moved into formation, squads of eight to ten men spaced apart to minimize losses against large-scale bombardments. Each unit was supported by a barrier specialist, their runes glowing faintly as they channeled protective wards to keep their comrades alive.

The battle erupted in a cacophony of elemental fury.

Shock spells cracked like thunder, stunning entire lines of defenders. Blaze sigils ignited, setting the battlefield aflame and leaving nothing but charred corpses in their wake. The wind howled as razor-sharp currents sliced through armor and flesh alike. The very earth itself rebelled—stone fists smashing into formations, jagged walls rising and falling, reshaping the terrain with violent intent. Freezing spells sealed escape routes, turning pathways into deadly, impassable glaciers.

A lone Emberclad rebel, emboldened by reckless ambition, rode a surge of sand to elevate himself above the walls—only to be struck midair by a stray shock spell. His body convulsed violently before plummeting lifeless to the ground below.

Above the chaos, Soldraknirr took to the skies once more. The defenders retaliated, enchanted ballistae loosing their payloads in desperate defiance. Their bolts found their mark, slamming into the Dragon-mech’s golden hull with earthshaking force—but Solarius-Plating endured. The Starfire drake answered in kind, blue flames raining from the heavens, licking against enemy barriers that strained under the unrelenting assault.

Some Emberclad warriors breached the ramparts, and there, amidst stone and steel, the fight devolved into brutal melee. Sword met sword, teeth gnashed against steel, and the cries of the dying wove into a gruesome symphony.

Lyrius, watching from Soldraknirr’s cockpit, smirked. Amused. Unbothered.

“The savages fight with Fenralis barriers and fortifications,” he mused, voice rich with derision. “No matter. Their mages will tire.”

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Soldraknirr bombarded the field, releasing alchemical bombs from its underbelly, each canister spiraling downward with eerie precision. The moment they struck, a sickly green vapor erupted, melting steel, stone, and flesh alike into bubbling ruin. Strategic points where enemy forces gathered—makeshift command posts, barricades, and natural rock formations that could serve as cover—were swallowed by the corrosive tide. Screams cut through the din of battle, soldiers stumbling from the fumes, armor sloughing off in liquefied heaps as their bodies followed suit. The earth itself withered, scarred by the dragon-mech’s relentless purge.

His hands moved over the controls, the cockpit amplifying the flow of magic coursing through his veins. Within Soldraknirr, the spellwork became sharper, more potent—its reach extended, its burden lessened. The mech responded in kind—tubes mimicking muscle fibers pulsed with crimson energy, their glow intensifying as arcane circuits wove the incantation into something far greater. The actuators tensed, ready to unleash devastation.

He uttered the words.

“Aero, audacter. Venti, veloci. Fornor, fornari. Galea, galego.”

The world inhaled.

Then exhaled in death.

"Ventus Fornori."

A terrible stillness seized the battlefield. The air, once thick with smoke and magic, now ceased to move entirely. Those caught within the spell gasped, their lungs seizing, their hands clawing at their throats in silent horror. Grass blackened, shriveled, and turned to dust. The once-lush fields of Vellmont curled into brittle ruin. The fortunate died swiftly; the unfortunate fell to their knees, eyes wide, lips forming soundless prayers to absent gods.

Among the Emberclad ranks, panic spread like wildfire. Some fled, desperate to escape the horror that had unfolded before them. Those who turned traitor in that moment were met with precise, merciless fire from Vellmont’s Luminite Riflemen. Any survivors were executed by the most loyal of Lyrius' lieutenants. No deserters. No second chances.

Lyrius raised the dead, his Draconis lineage asserting its dreadful dominion. The corpses stirred, shuddering with unnatural vigor as necromantic energy coursed through their ruined veins. Eyes once dulled by death ignited with baleful light, their bodies reassembling, flesh knitting together with grotesque speed. Whether friend or foe, it mattered not—all who had fallen were his now. Clad in the tattered remnants of their former selves, they stood, weapons clutched in unfeeling hands, awaiting his command. One way or another, they would serve him.

Soldraknirr roared once more, its golden form looming like a vengeful god over the wretched and the dying.

The slaughter had only just begun.