The Ashlands stretched before him, a land of ruin and ember.
Charred timbers jutted like broken teeth from black soil, and the skeletal frames of villages stood half-buried in volcanic dust.
Once, these had been Ferrondel holdings, fertile, green, alive. Now, they were husks sustained only by Ignarion coin and fire-born arrogance.
Caedrion sat astride his horse, the air dry and bitter against his lips.
His officers clustered around him, a map unfurled across the back of a supply cart.
The Siege of Emberhold loomed, and with it the end of House Ignarion's dominion.
"Lord," one officer pointed to the ridges east of the city.
"If we place the guns here, we can fire directly onto the outer curtain. Their wards will break under a sustained barrage within days."
Caedrion nodded, but his eyes remained distant.
