Casualties in war were unavoidable.
The strongest commanders knew this fundamental truth.
Because war was not pretty or kind...no matter how eloquent the speeches justifying it, no matter how noble the cause supposedly driving it.
Despite how one planned and strategized and executed everything with immense calculation considering every possibility... they would inevitably discover that their enemy had done exactly the same.
Even in the most glorious victories, there would be losses. Bodies that would not rise. Existences that would cease. Names that would be mourned.
This was the inescapable weaving of conflict.
At this moment.
In the Desiccated Sleeping Shore.
The skyspace above had transformed into region of molten authority and systematic collapse as existence itself had been fractured and torn through concentrated application of overwhelming force.
