The sky stretched above him like an open wound, red and raw. The red of spilled blood. The red of painted iron left to rust in the rain.
The ground was dyed with the same red hue, as if the earth itself had bled out. The silence was absolute, broken only by the distant drip of something wet and unseen.
The air was thick with the smell of rust and decay, heavy and suffocating.
Wherever Cael looked, corpses lay everywhere. Some were in armor, their metal dented and cracked.
Some were in rags, their faces frozen in expressions of terror. Some lay alone. Some lay in heaps, piled atop each other like discarded cloth.
In the bloody, breathless land, he saw two figures nearby.
One was leaning her back against a jagged rock; it was Princess Luna.
Her dress was torn in a dozen places, the fabric dark with dried blood. Her black hair was matted, clinging to her pale face in tangled strands.
Her breathing was shallow, each rise of her chest a visible effort.
