At the base of the mountain range up north, where the final, cataclysmic clash between the Cultists and the Acadian Magi had unfolded, the land lay in utter ruin.
The earth was charred black and caved in upon itself, while the nearby peaks had collapsed into jagged heaps of stone. For miles around, there was nothing but scorched wasteland.
The black flames, at some point, had been snuffed out, leaving behind nothing but drifting ashes… the remanants of the tens of thousands of zombies consumed within them.
In the aftermath of this ruinous battlefield that reshaped the entire topography of the lands north of Ravenfell, three figures could be seen… four, if one counted the charred corpse of the Emperor Emeritus.
Berger knelt on the ground, weeping silently as he held Gerald's lifeless body in his arms. Blackie remained standing by his side, his head hung low. Finally, there was Balthazar. He gazed at the charred corpse with a melancholic look in his eyes.
