The battlefield stretched beyond the horizon, a wasteland of shattered earth and broken bodies. The sky churned with clouds the colour of dried blood as stone-sized pieces of hail lashed at the distant warriors. Mountains had crumbled, rivers boiled into nothing, and the scent of decay and scorched meat carried on the wind.
Ania knew she was dreaming. She knew because she had been here before, not in this exact place, but in the nightmares that had haunted her since childhood. But this one felt different. More vivid. More real.
She stood alone in the middle of the battlefield, clad in battle-worn armour. Her spear was slick with ichor, the unnatural black fluid that dripped from the things she had slain. Her shattered shield, held loosely in her grip, was barely more than a broken frame. Her body ached, her breath came in ragged gasps, and every nerve in her being screamed at her to run.
