The wind carried the scent of ruin. Burnt cedar, charred flesh, and the faintest whisper of iron blood hung heavy over the Southern Plains. Once, this place had been alive — a valley of green terraces and river-fed soil, where the banners of the South fluttered proudly above the citadel walls. Now, the air itself seemed hollow, stripped of breath and mercy.
Ryon stood at the heart of it. Cloaked in shadows and blood, the Warlock of the South did not look like a savior. He looked like something born from the same darkness that had tried to consume the land. His crimson eyes, faintly glowing under the dim twilight, scanned the sea of corpses that stretched beyond the horizon. Smoke curled upward in thin, trembling fingers, as if the land itself was reaching toward him — pleading, accusing, alive in its suffering.
The battle had ended hours ago. The siege that had lasted three days and nights was over. But the silence that followed was worse.
