The sun had not yet risen, and the horizon glowed faintly with the promise of day, but there was no warmth in that light.
Only dread.
Herios stood upon the tall stone gate of his city, the first city ever built by humankind, carved through sweat, unity, and hope.
Behind him, families huddled behind walls, terrified. Farmers held pitchforks with trembling hands. Children watched in silence.
This city had become the last bastion of mankind's hope.
Ahead of him stretched an ocean of monsters.
Their howls cracked the air like thunder. Their bodies writhed in every form imaginable, scaled beasts, fanged giants, crawling horrors with too many limbs and too little mind.
A horde beyond counting, stretching from one end of the plains to the other.
Herios narrowed his eyes. The cold morning wind carried the scent of blood.
"They've come," he muttered.
At his side stood his captains, men and women who had once been chiefs of tribes now loyal to one banner.
