The heat did not just bake; it suffocated. Jael Crowfeeder wiped a mixture of sweat and iron-scented dust from his brow, his fingers lingering on the scar that ran like a jagged lightning bolt down his temple. Around him, the camp of the Imperial Legion hummed with the nervous energy of men who knew they were likely to die before the moon turned. "Crowfeeder!" a voice barked.

Jael watched the Captain retreat, his eyes narrowing. He thought of his ancestors, the ones who had supposedly created the very magic now being used by the invaders to turn man and beast into nightmare fuel. He wasn’t fighting for this Empire—an Empire that had slaughtered his tribe—but for the chance to break the curse they had unleashed.

"It’s a Sand-Reaper," Jael said quietly, his voice like grinding stones. "I can smell the sulfur on the wind. Your scouts are lucky to be alive."

The bone-knife left his hand before the thought even finished.

Jael didn’t turn. He recognized the heavy, arrogant tread of Captain Valerius before the man even spoke. "The Princess-General wants you at the vanguard. The scouts spotted something in the shifting dunes—something too large to be human."

The beast shrieked, a sound that vibrated in Jael's very marrow. But as it fell, he saw it: a treasonous knife, held by one of Larika’s own guards, rising toward the Princess-General’s back while she was occupied with a monster.

That night, under a sky of bruised purple, the attack came. It wasn't just a Reaper; it was a tide of them, their chitinous shells shimmering like obsidian. General Larika stood at the center of the line, her gold-engraved armor a beacon of defiance.

"Hold the line!" she screamed, but her soldiers were already breaking. The Reapers didn't just kill; they tore, their movements fueled by an ancient, twisted sorcery.