In Liondorr, the meeting of the sovereigns turned on the lookout, while at the other end of the lands of Arran, Dal'darum suffered the assault of the human armies: two fronts, one exit, the fate of the ancient peoples vacillating. Dal'darum burned, and the smoke tasted blood. The heroes who defended her wear to the bone while, in the shadow of the breaches, the necromancy was rooted like a weed. Every hour a stone was ripped off from the wall, each breath brought the city closer to its fall. And far from there, Lyorshell struck another fortress, where the sovereigns of Arran had gathered. Two fronts: one war: the fate of the lands of Arran.