Ashes.

ATLAS

The South fell was worse than I expected.

I sat atop my black warhorse, staring down at the smoldering carcass of a village. Ael. The air reeked of charred flesh and iron, the earth a graveyard of corpses. Survivors had fled—or joined the dead.

Kaius's forces had gotten here first.

My knuckles whitened around the reins. The bastard was moving like a plague. Relentless.

Behind me, my commanders held their tongues. Kaleb's absence prickled like an open wound, but I smothered the thought.

Not now.

A scout galloped to my side. "General, we've scouted ahead. Kaius's army has set up camp beyond the ridge, roughly five miles east."

I didn't need the report. The letter from Viktor himself had already carved the truth into my skull. Kaius held the South eastern stronghold of Balyndor. Reclaiming it would require blood, not bravery.