Absolute silence.
Rhys stood alone in the heart of the vast plaza, like a solitary figure in a world of his own making. The starlit void above was the only witness to the carnage.
Around him, the ground was a uniform blanket of fine, grey ash, punctuated by the soft, ethereal glow of thousands of lifespan crystals.
They were the only remnants of an annihilated army, the final embers of the Sanctum's might.
He was breathing heavily, each breath a ragged gasp that sent a plume of vapour into the still air. His simple clothes were shredded, and his body was a canvas of gore.
Deep gashes, cauterised by the light of the Archons, criss-crossed his torso. Dark, viscous blood was smeared across his skin, drying into a grotesque second hide.
His entire legion of Ashen Vindicators he had raised was gone. Every last one had been sacrificed, shattered into the same dust that now coated the battlefield.
'But I won.'
