(Planet Ixtal, Soron's POV)
As Soron descended from the sky, the storm of crimson energy that trailed behind him began to fade, its residual light scattering across the torn horizon like dying embers of a divine fire.
Ixtal sprawled beneath him in ruin, its once vibrant society now reduced to a shattered landscape of blackened stone and foreign banners, which fluttered at places where Cult flags once stood proud.
The sight made his chest tighten, an emotion too complex for simple rage to express.
'What….What is this?'
He wondered, his gaze sweeping across the plains, as every inch of ground screamed desecration.
The banners of the Righteous Faction, woven in their imperialistic colors, stood impaled into Ixtal's holy soil like spears mocking the dead.
Their soldiers, ants in comparison to his towering presence, scrambled in panic, shouting orders, rallying defenses, their voices faint and insignificant beneath the slow hum of the wind.
