The cacophony of war died abruptly, leaving a ringing silence in its wake.
Smoke still billowed from scattered points, creeping slowly like the final breaths of a fallen giant. The pungent stench of rendered fat and metallic blood saturated the air, so thick on the tongue it induced nausea. On the expanse of red earth, the black armor of Brassvale and the crimson robes of Ignis-Sol no longer held any meaning. They were now merely piles of lifeless flesh, indifferent to the colors of their banners or their oaths of loyalty to the crown.
The remaining Plagueborne still moved, but their motions had slowed unnaturally. Some staggered aimlessly, colliding with the wreckage of Golems without reaction, falling, and crawling back up. Others simply stood petrified, heads tilted to one side—krit, krak—as if tuning into a frequency beyond the reach of human ears. They were waiting. Waiting for a command far more ancient than their hunger.
