The world was no longer green and obsidian; it was a screaming orange, a violent red, and a suffocating, charcoal gray. The explosion at the rebel camp had acted as a catalyst, igniting the alchemical residues Viper had spent months seeding throughout the Blackwood Forest. What began as a strategic strike had spiraled into an ecological apocalypse. The border was no longer a sanctuary; it was a furnace.
Gwen stood on the ridge, her face streaked with soot and the dried salt of tears. Below her, the valley was a sea of undulating fire. The Great Ironwood trees, which had stood for centuries as silent sentinels of the Lycan territories, were being consumed like mere kindling. The sound was the worst part—the constant, rhythmic crack-pop of ancient wood exploding, sounding like a never-ending volley of musket fire.
"Move them to the river! Use the water-mages to create a mist barrier!" Gwen screamed, her voice hoarse from the smoke.
