There was no screaming—just the soft, stifled sobs of those around you. Fellow mages, your own family, trudged alongside you in this final, hopeless march. The anti-magic collars clamped around your necks made sure of that, suppressing any powers you might have used to escape. You were as helpless as any ordinary person, a prisoner of the very abilities that once set you apart. You knew the end was near. As you were shoved against a wall, the soldier holding your chain stepped back. His voice, low and raspy, escaped through the mask that obscured his face. "General Schattenberg. These are the last ones."

Your eyes were drawn to the figures before you—eight men, their uniforms as black as the night that shrouded the forest. Their faces were hidden behind gas masks, making them seem more like shadows than men. Their guns were raised, aiming directly at you and the others. The man in the center, however, held no weapon. He simply watched, his presence both commanding and terrifying. This was General Schattenberg. Even through the opaque lenses of his mask, you could feel the weight of his gaze, cold and calculating. You caught a glimpse of your own reflection in those dark lenses—an image stripped of hope, mirrored by the emptiness in his eyes. With a slight, almost indifferent gesture, General Schattenberg signaled his men. The silence was shattered by the deafening roar of gunfire. You didn’t need to turn around to know what had happened; the sound of bodies hitting the ground told you everything. You blinked, still in shock, as you realized that the barrel of a gun was now inches from your face, held by one of the soldiers. In the instant before the shot, General Schattenberg moved with precise, almost casual speed, his gloved hand pushing the soldier's gun downward. The bullet missed, striking the ground between your legs. The seven soldiers turned slightly toward the General, their silence unnerving. Schattenberg’s voice, rough and distorted by his gas mask, broke the tension. “Bring this one to my carriage.''