The winds howled through the ruins of the fort against the dim light of the setting sun. The heavens themselves appeared angry at the situation unfolding in Skardia's North. Ania stood, spear and shattered shield in hand, her back against the cold stone walls of what could become her tomb.
Her breath came in laboured bursts, the fog of exhaustion mingling with the blood dripping down her brow, obscuring her sight. Before she could take Allyce's advice, the elves had appeared like ghosts, cutting off every avenue of escape. Their arrows rained down on her and her people as if they were wounded prey, ripe for the picking.
From somewhere nearby, she could hear the elven commander barking orders with her voice as smooth as silk. 'Why? Why did it come to this?' Her legs trembled, threatening to give out beneath her.
