Dawn arrived at the Forward Military Outpost devoid of any warmth.
Since the early hours of the morning, Roland Sudrath had been standing near the ruins of the watchtower.
His dark blue diplomatic robes were coated in limestone dust. The hem was torn, a lingering memento of last night's incident. Mountain winds ruffled his dark hair, while the wound on his left shoulder continued to throb with a dull ache. He suppressed a wince, choosing instead to focus his gray eyes through the thick mist, staring fixedly in the exact direction the Alpha Wyvern had vanished.
The shuffling sound of approaching boots broke the silence.
The Outpost Commander—his head still wrapped in bloody bandages—came to a halt beside Roland. The suspicious glares previously aimed at the Northreach delegation were gone. Last night's tragedy had melted factional divides into a single, unified group: those who wanted to survive.
