The war in Varenthia had begun.
The city burned with chaos. The streets, once filled with murmured deals and quiet exchanges, now rang with the clash of steel, the screams of the dying, and the crackling of fire spreading through warehouses and dens of the Black Veil.
Draven moved through the battlefield like a specter of war. His blade flashed, his movements sharp and calculated—there was no wasted effort. Strike. Kill. Move.
Vyrell fought with precision, every motion deliberate, his blade an extension of his mind. He had no love for unnecessary violence, but his strikes were surgical—cutting through the enemy with terrifying efficiency.
Soren, in contrast, was destruction incarnate. A war beast in human form. Every swing of his warhammer sent bodies flying, shattered bones, and turned the battlefield into a slaughterhouse. Where Vyrell was a scalpel, Soren was an avalanche.
And together, they tore through the remnants of the Black Veil's forces.
