General Kaelen Dros had traveled under heavy escort for two days without pause, his command carriage flanked by mounted Veilguard outriders and banners of the Northern Front. The highland wind hissed against the reinforced steel of the carriage, whispering through arrow slits and armor seams alike. The roads had grown too quiet for his taste and quiet in the Iron March seldom meant peace. It meant aftermath. And Dros had learned, long ago, that aftermath carried no banners. Only smoke.
Inside the carriage, he reread the final field transcript, its ink smudged by cold and urgency. Halberreach, reduced to rubble. Thornvault, blackened stone and ash. Greybarrow and Saint Edrin's Hold, abandoned, desecrated. Churches in Hightarn, Barrowreach, and Saint Lavellan left in silence, their clergy slaughtered.
The reports had been gathered by scouts, couriers who had passed too close to the locations o notice the strange eeriness and smoke. The enemy left nothing behind. Not even motive.
