The great war, the Dominion Skirmish, had finally reached its end. Or at least, almost. A few factions still lingered across the island, but the greatest threat on this battlefield had been crushed.
It had been a long night. A brutal, exhausting night.
Atlas stepped out from the central fortress, his eyes sweeping across the battlefield. The warriors of the alliance moved steadily, cutting down the last remnants of resistance. A few enemy soldiers remained, but they were broken, scattered, and abandoned by their lords, left leaderless after their commander had fallen to Atlas and the other lords.
And then, dawn came.
The first light crept across the horizon, spilling golden rays over the ruined land. The battlefield lay bare beneath the morning glow, forever changed. Where snow had once blanketed the ground, now the earth was scorched black, cracked by molten veins long cooled. The air carried a strange warmth, unlike the bitter cold that had gripped them for weeks.
