Asher, draped in a storm-grey coat lined with obsidian fur, walked across the golden plains beside his regent, Kelvin. The wind swept over the dry grass in whispered waves as the two men strode through the Emberframed training field—a place where thunder was born by bowstring.
Before them, the Emberframed Stormbringers trained with solemn precision. Each archer was cloaked in darkened mail, lightning runes faintly glowing across their bows.
With a single unified breath, they unleashed their charged arrows—shafts crackling with barely-contained stormlight. The arrows tore through the air with a furious shriek, punching cleanly through three steel-hardened targets set three hundred meters away.
The impact left smoking holes and a lingering electric hum in the air. Their aim was surgical, their discipline flawless—superior even to the Emberframed Longbowmen.
