Raelis stood in the center of the camp, his fists clenched so tight his knuckles were white, his jaw grinding with barely suppressed rage. Around him, the once bustling battlefield had turned into a graveyard. His once-proud army, men who had been loyal, strong, and filled with purpose, were now crumbling like dust. The screams of the dying mixed with the crackle of distant flames, the pungent stench of blood and smoke clogging his senses.
He cursed under his breath, swore at the gods above, and spat at the ground as he surveyed the devastation. He could feel it—one by one, his men were falling. Every passing moment brought the weight of another loss. His soldiers were being cut down, his knights overwhelmed. His forces, once so confident and mighty, were being decimated by Eldric's superior strategy and the unexpected power of Rodrick, the traitor who now wielded lightning like a god of war.
