The horizon was stained with the ruddy glow of a thousand torches.
Warlord Fabian's army stretched as far as the eye could see, a horde of knights, witches, and mercenaries driven by ambition and greed.
Their banners, depicting a snarling black wolf, snapped in the wind, a symbol of their ravenous intent. Above them, witches clad in tattered robes hovered on enchanted platforms, chanting ominous incantations that filled the air with a crackling tension.
The fortress of the Saints Cult stood defiant, its white walls gleaming like a beacon of hope amidst the encroaching darkness. Soldiers manned the ramparts, clad in gleaming armor adorned with golden accents. Their faces were grim but resolute, their faith a bulwark against the fear that threatened to creep into their hearts. Behind them, priests moved through the ranks, offering prayers and blessings, their voices a harmonious counterpoint to the chaos brewing outside.
