Critical Points Of Failure

Bellamy stood atop a ridge of scorched earth, the wind carrying the acrid stench of charred wood and blood.

Behind him, Kael barked orders as the surviving druids tended to the wounded and buried the once that had died as they retreated.

The wyverns and bears without riders were corralled, kept in their pens until when they'd be needed once more.

He exhaled, his eyes roaming the camp from where he stood. This was the remains of another failed attempt at their salvation.

His hands clenched into fists at how close they'd been. His axe had tasted the blood of his sister. If he'd just been a breath faster, he'd have severed her head from her shoulders. He'd have saved his people.

Maria's eyes flashed in his mind. The same eyes that had pleaded with him to save her. The same eyes that had deceived him thirty years ago. But this time, he was no longer the naive man with a freshly dead father.