The dark clouds did not disperse with the end of the war and continued to press heavily in the sky.
Raindrops continuously fell, pattering on the cold, hard scales of the Giant Dragons, instantly shattering into finer mist, falling onto the battle-scarred land.
Galos stood at the highest point of Thunderous Cliff.
His sharp claws pierced into the crevices of the rugged, slippery rock beneath him, unwavering in the wind and rain, as if fused with the cliff.
He bowed his head slightly, surveying the devastated battlefield below, where all he could see was the scars left by war.
Giant Dragons belonging to the Molten Iron Tribe, some Vassal Lords, and the Followers were scattered across the battlefield, either resting or cleaning up after the battle.
The air was filled with a complex smell of blood, charred flesh, and rain, along with a sense of exhaustion and solemnity after the war.
The scene on the side of the Dominican Dragon Group was even more miserable.
