The situation was already bad, and Karon knew it before anyone else dared to say it out loud.
Eight thousand soldiers had marched into the Ritefield under his command. Eight thousand banners. Eight thousand lives. And far too many of them were tasting real battle for the first time. Not drills. Not border skirmishes. War.
Worse, complacency had crept in.
The moment the Thal'Zar lines broke, the moment resistance collapsed too cleanly, too easily, discipline bled away. Weapons were dismissed in flashes of fading light. Skills were released. Shields lowered. Formations loosened as relief replaced vigilance.
Victory had been assumed.
It was a mistake.
A single, thunderous crack had proven it.
The sound still echoed in Karon's mind, short, brutal, final. Not the clash of steel or the roar of a skill, but something colder. Mechanical. Absolute. The kind of sound that did not belong on a battlefield where people still believed themselves safe.
He did not look back again.
