الصوت المشترك

It was the third lunar month, the beginning of spring, in a far corner of the eastern part of the continent of South Phoenix. The dark, hazy sky hung oppressively overhead, like an ink painting splashed onto a canvas, with the dome of heaven black and the clouds smudged across it. Crimson bolts of lightning danced among the layers of clouds, accompanied by the clap of thunder. It sounded like the howl of a god, echoing out over the mortal world. Blood-colored rain fell with sorrow onto the mu