The massive, obsidian-timber gates of the Veynar settlement groaned open, peeling back to reveal a sprawling, churning ocean of absolute nightmare. The southern horizon was entirely obscured by a violently roiling dust cloud, within which the glowing, feral eyes of thousands of beasts burned like malicious, bloodthirsty stars.
The Beast Tide was not merely a pack of animals, it was a living, breathing force of nature, an avalanche of muscle, claws, and corrupted essence surging forward to wipe the human stain from the map.
And charging directly into the gaping maw of that apocalypse was a single, solitary figure.
Warchief Veylara stood atop the central defensive rampart, her chitin armor gleaming in the erratic light of the warning fires, her obsidian spear gripped so tightly that the petrified wood groaned in protest.
