The sky over the borderlands of Astraia was no longer blue, but a bruised, suffocating grey. Thick, oily columns of smoke rose from the horizon, twisting like spectral serpents against the encroaching clouds. The air carried a heavy, cloying heat that had nothing to do with the sun and everything to do with the death of livelihoods. For miles, the golden wheat fields that should have been swaying in the autumn breeze were reduced to blackened husks, crackling under the boots of the retreating soldiers. Constantine stood on a low ridge overlooking the village of Oakhaven, his silhouette carved out of shadow against the flickering orange glow of a burning granary.
"The last of the wagons have crossed the Ironhold line, My Lord," Isabella reported, her voice tight with a mixture of professio
