The sky over Northveil seemed to recoil from the very idea of granting peace to those who had just staked their lives upon its frozen soil. The snow descending from the bruised clouds was no longer an emblem of northern purity; instead, it carried the greasy, blackened ash of a thousand fires—a funeral shroud that stained the shoulders of every surviving soldier. Within the shattered remains of the shoreline, Duke Lucian Sudrath stood as still as a statue of cold granite. He remained locked in a rigid military salute, a posture that seemed to defy the very laws of physical and mental exhaustion. The silence following the destruction of the initial fleet was so thick it felt tangible, as if time itself had suffered a cardiac arrest, freezing in place to pay homage to the knights returned to the earth.
