The camp had become a nightmare.
Valdris's attack had turned the quiet clearing beside the stream into a place of fire, broken armor, and death. Only a short while ago, the Rubenhart knights had been resting around the campfire. Some had been speaking in low voices. Some had been checking their weapons before sleep. Others had watched the three sisters dance beneath the moonlight with quiet amusement.
Now the grass was torn beneath armored boots.
The tents had been scorched by stray fire spells. The supply carriage burned near its wheel, sending smoke through the clearing. The stream reflected crimson light from Ulrich's magic, orange light from Valdris's flames, and darker stains that spread across the water where the dead had fallen close to its banks.
The Rubenhart knights had faced a difficult battle from the beginning.
