The Holy Capital of Sanctum was a blinding monument to the gods.
Built from white marble and gilded with gold leaf, the city walls shimmered under the midday sun. It was a place of purity. A place where dirt and darkness were legislated out of existence.
The guards at the Golden Gate stood like statues. Their armor was polished to a mirror sheen, their halberds resting perfectly vertical. They were the image of order.
Then, a horse stumbled out of the treeline.
It was a nightmare of a beast. Its flanks were heaving, covered in white foam and dried mud. Its eyes were wild, rolling in its skull.
On its back sat a man who looked like he had crawled out of a grave.
His plate armor was rent open as if giant claws had peeled the steel like an orange. Dried blood caked half his face. His left arm hung limp, swaying sickeningly with the rhythm of the dying horse.
The horse took three more steps onto the pristine white cobblestones of the entry bridge.
Then, its heart gave out.
