The battlefield was unrecognizable.
The plains of had become a grave of molten soil and shattered armor, an ocean of smoke illuminated by dying embers. The air was heavy with ash and the stench of burnt mana; every breath came with the taste of iron.
The Northern banners barely fluttered now, their colors blackened and torn. The Central-Southern standards hung no better, pierced by broken spears and half-buried under corpses.
And in that wasteland—two figures advanced toward each other.
---
Noah Ashbourne's coat fluttered behind him, draped loosely over his shoulders. His black spear gleamed faintly, jagged where the edge had been reforged too many times. His boots crunched over the corpses of friend and foe alike.
