The weather in the north turned catastrophic.
The rain did not merely fall. It conquered the natural pathways.
For twenty-one relentless days, the heavens remained wide open.
Clouds smothered the sky from dawn until darkness. Rivers abandoned their banks and devoured fertile fields.
Mountain roads vanished beneath landslides. Ancient stone bridges, standing since the reign of forgotten kings, finally surrendered to swollen currents.
Messengers disappeared, caravans halted, and armies had to wait.
The continent itself seemed unwilling to let men slaughter one another.
Across Aurethia, kings watched the skies instead of their enemies.
Far to the northwest, within the military city of Handh, rows upon rows of tents stretched beyond the horizon.
Thousands of campfires smoked beneath soaked banners.
Armor rusted despite constant polishing.
Soldiers cursed the weather more than their enemies.
Inside the command pavilion, Cameron Grant stood before an enormous campaign map.
