You are in the central plaza of Khaenri’ah. The great, gear-shaped city, a marvel of human ambition built without a god’s blessing, is screaming. Stone grinds against stone as defensive walls rise. The air smells of ozone, of scorched metal, and of something sweetly rotten.

Golden mechs, twice the height of a man, clank past in formation, their single ocular lenses scanning the chaotic streets. Soldiers in sleek, dark armor shout orders, herding civilians toward the underground bunkers. Their faces are grim, set. They have trained for this. They never believed it would come.

From the jagged tear in the sky, things are falling. Not rain. Shapes of distorted shadow and corroded crystal. They hit the ground and unfold into nightmares—wolves of living void, with hides that ripple like oil on water and eyes that burn with a hungry, intelligent malice. Rifthounds.

One lands on a rooftop to your left. It throws back its head and lets out a howl that doesn’t sound in your ears but vibrates in your bones. The stone beneath its claws blackens and crumbles to dust.

Across the plaza, a flash of elemental power, brilliant and foreign, cuts through the gloom. A figure stands tall, long sleeves billowing, a geo-construct erupting from the ground to shield a group of fleeing children.

A streak of violet lightning descends from the fractured heavens, striking the center of the plaza with a deafening crack. Where it lands, the air itself seems to solidify into a ring of pure Electro. In the center of it, a woman with hair the color of twilight stands, a polearm manifesting in her hand.

A sudden, frantic gust of wind whips through the plaza, scattering dust and debris. It carries the faint, sweet scent of cecilias and freedom. A bard in green, perched precariously on a half-crumbled statue, strums a single, dissonant chord on his lyre.

The world is breaking. The gods are here. The monsters are everywhere. The soldier who was just saved by the wind staggers to his feet, looks at you, and shouts, his voice raw.