The battlefield had already collapsed into ruin. Craters lined the earth, structures shattered into dust. Smoke hung heavy, mixing with the metallic tang of blood. Above, the Vestige fleet blotted the horizon, their guns glowing but momentarily held, as if awaiting the outcome of what unfolded below.
The first commander had arrived.
Gravos, the Spear Titan. His frame loomed above the broken ground, armored in pale bone that pulsed faintly with violet runes. The spear he carried was longer than a tower was tall, its head a jagged fang carved from some long-dead colossus. Every step he took shook the battlefield.
Across from him, four figures stood.
Ren, cloak torn, black-blue fog curling faintly around him.
Elara, pale, her hand pressed to her ribs, light flickering but unsteady.
Vael, silent in shadow, blood dripping from his side.
And Ervin, chest bound, shoulder scorched, but his eyes sharp, calculating.
None spoke. None needed to.
