The dawn did not bring the sun. It brought the shadow of wings.
To the North, the horizon was black. It wasn't clouds, but scales. The roar of the Wyvern Legion carried for miles, a deep, thrumming vibration that made their teeth rattle.
On the walls of the West Tower, the Iron Legion stood ready. They looked small. They looked breakable. Commander Varric gripped his new sword, a massive slab of iron Revas had forged for him from the melted vault door, holding it with white-knuckled intensity.
"Five hundred feet," Varric muttered, gauging the altitude. "They are staying out of crossbow range. Smart bastards."
Mirabelle stood on the highest parapet, the wind whipping her black leather coat. She wore the silver mask pushed up on her head like a crown.
"They aren't smart," Mirabelle said, her voice steady. "They are arrogant."
Beside her, Revas was leaning over the battlements, eating a peach. He wiped juice from his chin.
