Alaric floated above it all, suspended in that impossible space between dream and reality, forced to watch as history painted itself in blood below.
He'd been here for hours. Maybe days. Time had no meaning in this state.
"They're not even leaving women or children."
His voice came out hollow. Distant. As if speaking from the bottom of a well.
Below him, or perhaps ahead of him, the second Ancient House stronghold burned.
House Bloodmoon's ancestral fortress.
A structure that had stood for three thousand years, its walls carved from single mountain face, reinforced with essence formations that should have been impregnable.
Should have been.
But the outer walls were already breached. Smoke rose from dozens of fires burning within the compound. And through the gaps in the fortifications, Alaric could see everything.
The slaughter was methodical.
