The wind howled through the jagged cliffs of Crimson Pass, carrying with it the scent of damp stone and the metallic tang of anticipation. High above the canyon floor, hidden among the rocky outcrops, Duke Marveil's forces lay in wait.
Mages crouched behind illusionary barriers, their fingers tracing silent runes in the air, ready to unleash storms of fire. Archers nocked arrows tipped with paralyzing venom, their breaths steady, their eyes locked on the narrow passage below. Boulders, enchanted to shatter upon impact, perched precariously on the cliff edges, held in place only by whispered spells.
At the far end of the pass, Pietro Silvestri stood motionless, his hand resting on the hilt of the Celestial Edge. The legendary blade hummed faintly, its celestial energy resonating with his own mana. His 100,000 troops—elite knights, hardened mercenaries, and battlemages—stood in disciplined silence behind him, their armor dulled to avoid reflection.
'This was the perfect trap.'
