King Dorian Montgomery dreamed of war. Not the kind sung about by bards.
There were no glorious charges, no banners dancing beneath a clear sky, no triumphant horns.
Only corpses, thousands of them. Men wearing every color upon the continent.
Bentram crimson.
Drevlorn black.
Krynova green.
Murak gold.
Tharun'kai white
Khol Brown
Soland Yellow
Tataria Blue
Blood erased every banner until all kingdoms looked the same.
He walked through them alone, a crown rested upon his head, it was cracked.
Then all of a sudden, he felt pain. A burning sensation shot across his face.
His eyes snapped open. "...!"
His hand instinctively reached for his cheek.
Seven Blessed Lines stretched across his weathered face.
They were hot, not painfully so. Just… burning.
The sensation lasted only a heartbeat, yet in that single instant...
The old king's heart pounded harder than it had in years.
