He watched the secondary road weave through the valley like a silver thread, eventually bleeding into the great artery of the Magna Strata.
It looked like a small river flowing into a vast, dark sea. Between that road and the grey stone where he stood lay a carpet of trampled green grass and the endless, bristling ranks of an army that wanted his head.
That road was the dividing line between the home he had built and the hell he was currently inhabiting to defend it.
And it, indeed, was hell.
The air was a thick, clotted soup of iron and rot, the only air they had breathed for three months now.
