The Field of Skulls did not resemble a battlefield so much as it resembled the aftermath of a place of neverending carnage.
Bone lay everywhere.
Bones scattered and buried beneath the bonedust, not even partially contained. It was simply present, spread across the ground in layers that had been degraded and washed away by the wind and elements, suggesting centuries of accumulation rather than any single event. Some pieces were small enough to grind into powder beneath a boot. Others were long, curved fragments that jutted upward like broken pillars, half-buried and half-exposed, as if whatever once owned them had been too large for death to fully erase.
The air itself was tainted.
Every breath drawn into the lungs carried a dry, metallic bitterness that clung to the back of the throat. It was not just dust. It was older than mere dust.
