The sun had long dipped below the horizon, but the firelight from Herios' torch flickered valiantly, casting shadows across the jagged cliffs.
He rode at the front of a small column of horsemen—his Chosen Guards, clad in dark bronze armor trimmed with silver.
Their armor bore no divine symbol, no god's crest, only the banner of Herion, symbolizing the flame of humanity, born not from Olympus or Chaos, but from the will to survive.
Herios, cloaked in a dark traveler's mantle, leaned slightly forward over his horse.
His face was lined with the burdens of leadership. His eyes, sharp and unwavering, scanned the horizon.
It had been three days since they left the capital of Herion.
Three days of riding through hills, forests, and winding rivers.
But no monsters stalked them. No divine beasts crossed their path.
The rebels had honored their message of truce—an invitation to speak, one final time, before the war consumed both sides.
At dawn on the third day, they arrived.
