Miles away from the frozen valley, beneath dark banners snapping violently in the wind, the Usurpers' main encampment simmered with tension.
The General stormed into the central command pavilion, his scorched armor still faintly smoking where frost and flame had clashed. A deep cut ran along his side, hastily sealed but not fully healed. His aura was unstable, not from weakness, but from fury barely contained.
Officers inside the pavilion fell silent the instant he entered.
Maps lay scattered across a heavy wooden table. Markers indicating cavalry superiority and projected flanking routes now meant nothing.
They had lost the first exchange.
Not annihilated.
But forced back.
And in war, perception mattered as much as numbers.
The General slammed his gauntleted fist onto the table. The impact cracked the wood down the center.
