The plains of Lamping, which moments ago were filled only with the copper stench of blood and the guttural screams of the dying, were suddenly swallowed by a suffocating, absolute silence. The wind, which usually rustled gently through the ancient Verdia foliage, seemed held back by an invisible, celestial hand. Above the leveled settlement, the sky began to throb, emitting an unnatural deep violet hue that drove away the dawn light—the very light that was supposed to bring hope to the victors.
General Haelir lowered his enchanted bow slowly. He sat tall atop his war-stag, staring at the single figure still kneeling amidst the mounds of corpses. Dayat—the man he had dismissed as a mere 'germ' disrupting the stability of Verdia—had fallen, a shaft of holy light piercing his vitals. By every law of the world, it was over. But something felt profoundly, terrifyingly wrong.
