The next day dawned gray and cold, as if the world itself was mourning the souls that had passed into the afterlife these past few days.
Even with the drizzle of rain that had showed up that night, the smell of ash still clung to the air.
Rows upon rows of burned-out tents lined what remained of the camp, their tattered banners fluttering limply in the wind.
The surviving adventurers, barely four hundred of them, stood in a loose formation before the captain's stand. Many were bandaged, limping, or leaning on spears to keep themselves upright.
There was no laughter or cheer that would be expected after a successful campaign. Only silence.
Captain Wells was dead. He'd died trying to protect the healing tents during the last wave.
One of the tents had collapsed after he crashed into it, then torched by a drake. By the time they'd quenched the fire and pulled the debris away, there had been nothing left to save.
