The aftermath of the general’s decapitation had left the plains of Astraia in a state of suspended animation. While the vanguard had been shattered by Constantine’s dark Essence, the remaining bulk of the Orestes army—thousands of starving, desperate men—clung to the edges of the battlefield. They were like a wounded beast, dangerous in their hunger, retreating toward the only structures they believed held the key to their survival. The air was thick with the scent of ozone and the iron tang of blood, mixed with the biting wind that swept across the vast, open lowlands.
Constantine stood atop a small rise, his eyes fixed on the distant silhouette of a massive stone warehouse. It sat isolated on the plains, a structure originally designed to hold the winter stores of the southern guilds. T
