Chapter 4: Twisting the Currents
The heavy rumble of iron shod wheels announced the arrival of the carriages long before the dust clouds cleared the tree line.
Three reinforced wagons, bearing the banner of Fort Vael’Zareth, rolled to a halt before the perimeter of the orc encampment, or what was left of it.
The soldiers disembarked swiftly, weapons drawn, eyes wary.
But there was no enemy. Only fire.
The entire camp was ablaze, thick, oily smoke rising in choking plumes toward the pale morning sun.
The stink of burnt flesh saturated the air. Piles of orc bodies smoldered along the western edges. On the eastern side, another more solemn line of Elven corpses, or what remained of them burned under hastily piled wood.
Nearly two hours passed before Magisters arrival. Magister Veridan stood still, his expression unreadable, as the scene unfolded before him.
Solmere and Vaelyn flanked him, their faces equally grim.
No survivors. No prisoners. No signs of an organized retreat. Only the sickening certainty of finality.
A sharp clatter of hooves drew attention as the Fort Commander himself arrived. Commander Althar Velis, a hardened veteran clad in dark green command armor, his cloak stitched with silver thread denoting his rank.
He dismounted and saluted crisply, eyes flicking from the ruined camp to the Magisters.