The storm roared above the fortress of Eberdeen, a swirling mass of black clouds that blocked out the sun and plunged the battlefield into an unnatural twilight. The chill in the air had nothing to do with the rain or the biting wind. It was something darker, something sinister, laced with the unmistakable aura of Valek Draconis.
James stood atop the northern wall, his gaze fixed on the treeline in the distance. The trees swayed violently in the storm's fury, their branches whipping about as if possessed. Every soldier around him, from the archers to the ground troops, held their breath, waiting. They knew this was no ordinary storm. The wind carried with it the foul stench of death, decay, and dark magic.
