The battlefield was littered with the dead. Bodies lay scattered across the blood-soaked earth, their armor dented, their weapons still clutched in lifeless hands.
The air was thick with the smell of iron and sweat, the sounds of dying men fading into an eerie silence. Vrethka had won the battle, but the war was not yet over.
Vrethka had about two hundred men left now. They had many more before, perhaps almost double that number, but now it was just two hundred.
The war had been brutal, relentless, and the cost had been heavy. Good men had fallen, their lives sacrificed for the survival of their people. But they had held on. They had fought. And now, they had the upper hand.
Harrowhold had about a hundred men left. They had started with way more, but Vrethka's warriors had whittled them down, cutting through their ranks like a scythe through wheat.
The enemy was weakened, battered, and demoralized. Their morale was shattered, their will to fight broken.
