The night was growing darker, and the winter wind blew coldly. Amidst the bleak surroundings, patches of fire illuminated the hillside, burning the remnants of the feud that had persisted for several weeks.
The air was heavy with the acrid scent of smoke and blood, mingling with the metallic tang of spent gunpowder. Broken weapons and shattered armour littered the ground, silent witnesses to the fierce struggle that had taken place.
The earth, torn and churned by the relentless march of soldiers and artillery, lay bare and still. The silence was punctuated only by the crackling of the fire and the footsteps of the victorious party, ensuring that no survivors remained.
The Bargesian flag, tattered and trampled, no longer stood with pride; it was soiled with dirt and dust from the battle. The brutality of the conflict had brought them low in a merciless war fueled by their own arrogance and greed.
