---
At the ridgeline General Irontide planted his frame, legs braced wide enough to anchor a siege-tower. Lava-orange light flowed through seams of his armour, pulsing to the beat of a heart that had carried him through centuries of war. His compound eyes narrowed, tracking the Blood-Scythe Mantira that vanished beneath the dunes with Kai and the rib of A'zhorath. A cold oath hissed between his mandibles yet he dared not dive after the Kai.
"Priorities," the grizzled general reminded himself. "The corpse first, the army second, That boy is just a worker ant. It doesn't matter if he dies." For a commander, sentiment was a luxury paid for with lives.
