The sky over the battlefield was cracked with fire.
Ash rained down in black sheets, coating the splintered remnants of siege engines and the burned-out husks of armored war beasts. The earth was split and torn, huge trenches ripped across the plains where once, five years ago, Roan's banners had marched tall.
Now, the banners lay in tatters, trampled under shattered helmets and broken spears.
At the center of it all, June knelt.
His once-immaculate black and gold armor was a ruin — plates scorched and warped, the right pauldron sheared clean off, the left gauntlet melted into his forearm. His head hung low, shaggy dark hair clinging to sweat and blood, his back heaving as each breath came ragged and strained. His fists pressed into the dirt, knuckles bleeding.
He couldn't lift his head.
Not because of exhaustion, though exhaustion clawed at every nerve.
Not because of pain, though pain lanced through every muscle and bone.
