Dawn broke gray and cold.
The Threian remnants moved in a thin, ragged column, winding their way through the war-torn plains of the Orcish Lands. What little warmth the morning offered was devoured by wind, a biting, whispering gale that seemed to carry voices from the dead field behind them.
The Baron of Frost rode at the head, his griffon moving through the plains like a lion through tall grass. Its feathers were matted with dried blood. Its beak clicked idly, impatient, as though longing for another hunt. Behind him trudged the wounded and weary, armor dulled, banners torn.
Major Gresham rode beside him, hunched and pale, every jolt of his horse's gait a grimace of pain.
"Word from the scouts?" he asked.
"None since dawn," the Baron replied. His tone was clipped, not from anger, but calculation. "They were to check the road up ahead, since it was better than to be sorry less they might get ambushed out of nowhere by a band of orcs lurking in the shadows.
