The weather on the Bloodstained Highlands was as mercurial as ever.
Only moments ago, the sun had shone brightly over the battlefield. Now, dark clouds loomed heavy over the land, and the north wind howled with biting chill.
The earth was soaked crimson. Every step through the snow forced a sickly ooze of blood to the surface—so foul even the flies would retch at the stench.
But no one left standing had time to care.
Rus among them.
He stood still before the body of a fallen soldier from the Eagle Legion, a somber expression etched across his face.
He knew this man—Moore, from the First Company's Third Platoon. Rus had once singled him out for praise during training, impressed by his diligence and potential.
Now, Moore lay motionless on the ground, his face twisted in defiant anger. One arm remained raised as though grasping for something—yet a curved blade had pinned him to the earth, ending his struggle.
