The battlefield was a wasteland of shattered earth and broken bodies.
Days of relentless combat had left both sides battered and weary, their once-mighty forces reduced to skeletal shadows of their former glory. Smoke rose in dark tendrils from burning siege engines, and the cries of the wounded filled the air, mingling with the distant clash of steel.
Cardinal Peter stood on the remnants of the Saints Fortress' inner walls, his gleaming Blessed Blade resting heavily in his hand. His robes, once pristine, were now torn and stained with blood, both his own and that of countless foes.
"Haaa… haaa…"
His breathing was labored, his injuries numerous, but his resolve remained unbroken.
Peter's sharp golden eyes surveyed the scene below.
