Queen Lyra's Stand

The sky bled twilight, a bruised purple and angry orange that mirrored the turmoil in Queen Lyra’s heart. Before her, stretching into the hazy distance, lay the fields of Aethelgard, soon to be a battleground. Her army, a sea of determined faces beneath the royal banner, stood ready, their breath misting in the chill air. Beside her, Lord Commander Valerius, his face a mask of grim resolve, adjusted the grip on his sword.

“They are… many, Your Majesty,” Valerius stated, his voice a low rumble. He didn’t need to elaborate. The scouts’ reports had painted a grim picture, a tide of shadow beasts and twisted forms, an army born from the encroaching darkness that Elara’s uncontrolled magic had inadvertently summoned.

Lyra’s gaze swept over her soldiers. Farmers, blacksmiths, scholars – men and women who had answered the call to arms, their homes threatened, their futures imperiled. She saw the fear in some eyes, the steely resolve in others. They looked to her, and she would not falter.