"They aren't coming back for it, Silas," a voice rasped through the fog.
The grey snow fell not from the clouds, but from the smoldering bones of the world. Ashes of War [v1.0]
"We move at moonrise," Silas said, standing up and letting the shield fall back into the mud with a dull thud. "Gather the others. Tell them to wrap their boots in wool. The silent-striders are hunting the perimeter again." "They aren't coming back for it, Silas," a
Silas pulled a heavy leather skin from his belt and uncorked it. Instead of water, it contained a thick, shimmering oil—rendered from the fat of the fallen beasts that now stalked the ruins. He poured a single drop onto the shield's surface. "Gather the others
Silas looked back at the small, shivering cluster of campfires tucked into the ruins of a collapsed watchtower. A handful of hollow-eyed refugees and three wounded soldiers were all that remained of a proud garrison.
Bram spit a dark glob of phlegm into the snow. "How many left, Captain?"
They called it the Ashing. It had been seven years since the Great Compact was shattered, and the skies had never truly cleared.