The Relentless Pursuit

Dawn after Cibalae carried the stench of iron, old blood, and the wet breath of the Pannonian plain. Pale light seeped into a world flattened by violence. The field was a mosaic of carnage: bodies twisted in their last contortions, shields shattered and painted with mud and gore, pila snapped or driven deep into the trampled turf. Where yesterday had ended in noise and fury, today began with the hush of consequence. Victory's cost lay in every frozen hand, every face half-buried in frostbitten grass.