Midnight in summer, the air thick with the ceaseless chirping of insects.
Inside the tower of Ironforge Keep, torches blazed with flickering flame. The crackling fire spat embers and smoke that rose straight into the night, blackening the already soot-stained stone walls.
The stench of burning oil, smoke, and sweat filled the air—so heavy it felt like roasting meat. Even the rats and flies avoided lingering in this oppressive place.
Yet one man sat at an old, grease-stained wooden desk. Helmet still on his head, his black hair stuck to his face with sweat. His eyes, though sunken with fatigue, remained focused as he combed through documents.
His gaze passed over a sheet of parchment. He paused, reached for his quill to make a note—but even that simple motion made sweat bead on his nose and drop onto the desk in fat, noisy splashes.
"Ugh…" he opened his mouth to speak, but his dry lips stuck together, tearing slightly. A thin line of blood trickled down.
