The morning horn of Mount Sorrow sounded not as a grim dirge of doom, but as a resonant call to arms that reverberated off the jagged basalt cliffs. Dawn broke over the razorback peaks, painting the perpetual mist in hues of pale amethyst and rose-gold. In the vast lower courtyards of the black citadel, three thousand elite legionnaires of the Vanguard stood drawn in parade formation—heavy infantry clad in oiled…
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