Snow fell steadily, painting the ruins of Ebonhollow in a sparse layer of white, a reluctant, yet unspoken declaration that winter had lurked long enough.
A frigid wind wafted by, leaving an icy chill in its wake.
Neveah stood at the highest point of the witch ruins, staring ahead. And the massive forlorn army, a sea of hideous beasts of all kinds and sizes, from great to small, stared right back.
While Imagor and Kirgan had led the second squadron, the mages and the tributary races to confront the invading main army,
The forlorn army that had traveled under cover of magic had finally made itself known on their rear.
They had hoped to ambush them on all sides, catch them off guard. Jian had anticipated it. And so they had taken up guard here, waiting.
It was ironic. She'd been here before. Once, in Asrig's writings.
She stood right at this highest point, staring down at a city that slept, blissfully unaware of the tragedy that was soon to befall them.
