The first light of dawn touched the Lag'ranna Mountains with cold, merciless clarity.
Countess Aliyah Winters stood at the edge of the rocky outcrop overlooking the killing field below, her frostforged armor gleaming pale in the early sun. The battlefield stretched before her like a canvas painted in blood and ash. Thousands of bodies lay frozen in death... orcs crumpled where they had fallen, their dark blood pooled and hardened into black ice. The ground itself bore the scars of battle: churned earth, shattered weapons, broken shields emblazoned with crude symbols now half-buried in mud and snow.
Behind her, the camp stirred with controlled activity. Healers moved between the wounded, their hands glowing faintly with restorative magic. Soldiers cleaned weapons and counted arrows. Engineers worked to repair broken sections of the defensive line. The mountain pass, which had nearly been their grave days before, now stood as testament to their resilience.
