The night air was thick with smoke and iron.
The battlefield outside Riverdale had become an ocean of corpses.
Men, monsters, and abominations, each twisted, broken form, lay piled upon the churned earth, their blood pooling into steaming rivers.
The verdant plains, once proud and fertile, were now reduced to a wasteland of mud and gore, the soil unable to drink any more of the red that spilled upon it.
The air was heavy with the stench of death. Even the wind refused to blow, as though the heavens themselves were holding their breath.
The moans of the dying mixed with the clang of scattered steel and the distant crackle of flames that had erupted from the recent meteor shower.
Thousands of soldiers had already perished, not by blade nor by skill, but by the mere aftershocks of two titans colliding at the center of the carnage.
One of those titans stood bloodied yet smiling.
Klaus.
