DESCENT OF AERTHALON

The sky did not open… it fell. From the storm, the fleets of Aerthalon descended—iron leviathans blotting out the light. Arcane cores burned beneath their hulls as the warhorns called the ascent into war. Ramps shattered open. Steel met sky. And the warriors of Aerthalon fell like judgment itself. Riders of the wind tore through the clouds, striking with precision. Infantry hit the ground in perfect formation—unyielding, relentless. Below them, Ravenmoor did not break. They endured. They roared. They met the storm with blood and iron. Two forces. One battlefield. Sky against Ash. Ascent against Endurance. Born to the Wind. Bound by None.