The first thing the people of Jimland noticed was the silence.
The birds had stopped singing. The wind carried no scent of pine or wet earth—only the metallic tang of approaching rain, laced with something fouler. Gunpowder. Ozone. The stench of empires on the march.
From the high watchtowers of the capital, sentries with owl-like eyes saw them first: black columns moving across the northern plains like spilled ink. The Stormbreaker floated among the clouds, its massive silhouette warping the sunlight, casting the land below into premature twilight.
A young fox-eared messenger sprinted through the muddy streets, his voice raw with panic.
"They're here! The Empire—they've crossed the border!"
The words spread like wildfire. Doors slammed shut. Market stalls were abandoned. Mothers grabbed their children—some with fur, some with scales, all with the wide, terrified eyes of prey that knows the hunt has come.
