The dawn did not bring the clear, sparkling sun of northern winter, but a sickly, bruised twilight that choked the sky in ash and freezing mist. Across the southern bluffs of the Whispering River, seventy thousand soldiers of King Malakar’s invasion army stood arrayed in terrifying, disciplined ranks. In front of their battle lines stood forty necro-shamans wearing cowls of stitched flayed skin, thrusting their blackened bone staves into the…
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