Beneath the northern sky, in a village not far from the garrison, columns of black smoke still coiled upward, clawing stubbornly at the ashen heavens as if refusing to vanish. The air was thick with the acrid scent of charred timber, the metallic tang of blood… and the heavy stench of death.
Half the roofs had collapsed under the ruthless assault of the Redmark marauders. Granaries, fields—everything that once sustained life here—had been reduced to smoldering debris. Even a passing glance could conjure the nightmare the villagers had just survived. By some rare fortune, no lives had been lost.
Scattered across the ruins, a handful of villagers and soldiers worked in grim silence, gathering the corpses of the fallen Redmark raiders—those too slow to escape. Others picked through the wreckage, searching for what little might still be salvaged. Rowan, his face streaked with sweat and soot, his armor dulled by smoke, climbed the rise where Dorian stood.
