*Ryatt*
Twin Rivers is nothing but ash and stone as I walk beside Westfall through a wall of heavy fog tinged with smoke. It ripples around my boots as each of my steps echo in the nothingness the last battle left behind.
Over the mind-link, I hear the voices of my commanders rattling off the names of their dead. My father’s royal army has pushed into the Roguelands like I expected, and I had my own forces retreat to the Deadlands, the last holdout before the coven, and Veiled Valley.
Through the fog, I see the flickering lights of Rifthold across the bridge, the very bridge one of my commanders begged to have destroyed. It wouldn’t have prevented this c*****e. We are mere wolves against an enemy with power stolen from others and manipulated to mirror death at every turn.
In the end
