Morning seeped into the grove in hesitant strokes, silver light collecting first on frost-rimmed ash before creeping up the blackened roots like forgiveness arriving too late. Where the heartwood titan had stood, a crater yawned—charred soil veined with brittle lacework of iced sap. Thin mist curled from the depression, ghosting through candles that still burned at the periphery. Their flames dotted the battlefield in miniature constellations, each barely a thumb's width high, yet together they suggested a sky stubborn enough to rise from the ground.
Two formations gathered beneath that pale dawn. On the northern flank, Vaelira's companies assembled beneath banners hastily mended overnight—tattered cloth now stitched with white thread where lightning had ripped seams apart. Spear tips glimmered weakly; helms showed fresh polish over dented ridges. War-priests murmured along the ranks, touching blood-chalk symbols to foreheads, anointing courage with the scent of iron and pine resin.
