Chapter 1: The Ashen Sky

Ash drifted like snowflakes through the ruined valley, spiraling in lazy circles before settling on the broken spears and twisted corpses that littered the earth. Once-green fields were scorched black, their beauty lost beneath the charred remains of what had once been vibrant grass, now reduced to brittle ash and the stench of death. The land was a graveyard, one that the living had long abandoned, leaving it to rot beneath the weight of war. The air was thick with the odor of burning flesh, a foul miasma that clung to the wind like an old ghost, never truly leaving, never truly forgotten.

The crows had come first, their shrill cries cutting through the stillness of the valley like blades, a savage symphony that drowned out the once-peaceful hum of nature. Their wings beat in unison, a dark cloud that blotted out the remnants of the sun, casting long shadows over the land. They descended upon the dead without mercy, swarming over bodies with a brutal hunger. Their beaks tore through flesh and bone, raking at the remains of the fallen with frenzied abandon. They feasted on what was left, plucking eyes from their sockets, tearing at the sinew and muscle that once gave life to those now lost to time. Their cries echoed through the ruins, a harsh chorus that only the earth could hear, a reminder of how far humanity had fallen.

Then came the wolves, drawn by the scent of blood. They arrived as nightfall crept in, their bodies lean and sinewy, their eyes glowing with an almost predatory intelligence. The wolves howled, their eerie cries blending with the mournful calls of the crows, a haunting symphony that wove itself into the very fabric of the desolate valley. The land itself seemed to tremble beneath their presence, as though it too knew the inevitability of nature's cycle: life feeding off death, the hungry consuming the fallen. Their footsteps were soft, calculated, the thick pools of blood beneath their paws spreading like dark pools of ink. They moved in packs, circling the remains of the battlefield like scavengers in search of anything that still lived, though their only prey was the bitter aftertaste of a world torn apart.

Their howls filled the valley, a sorrowful cry that would never be heard by the living. They sang not of joy, but of the hopelessness that plagued the land. The cries rang out across the broken earth, bouncing off the jagged rocks and the crumbling remnants of what had once been proud fortresses. Their mournful sound was a reminder that no one—human or beast—was immune to the reach of death. And yet, even in the face of such overwhelming devastation, life persisted, however fleetingly. The wolves, like the crows, carried on, driven by instinct, by hunger, by the ever-present need to survive.

But when the sun dipped beneath the horizon, and the sky bled into a muted, blood-tinted gray, she arrived.

Wrapped in a cloak of deep crimson, the color of dried blood and old wounds, the figure appeared as though she had emerged from the very heart of the battlefield itself. Her cloak was frayed, its edges torn and scorched by the fires of battle, the once-rich fabric now faded and worn from years—perhaps centuries—of wandering the ravaged earth. The cloak fluttered behind her, moving with a grace that defied its tattered state. Despite its decay, there remained an undeniable majesty in its presence. It was the last remnant of something regal, something once mighty. It fluttered like the last