The forest lay in eerie silence, its once-pure snow now defiled by blood and ruin. White drifts had become burial shrouds, masking the mangled remains beneath. The air was thick with the scent of death, and the crimson-stained ground bore witness to horrors that would fester in the minds of the living long after the screams had faded.
Bodies lay scattered across the blood-soaked earth like discarded marionettes, their strings cut by claws sharper than any imperial blade. These weren't just casualties of war. These were men who'd laughed over ale mere hours ago, who'd complained about the cold and dreamed of warm beds. Now they decorated the snow in pieces, some still steaming in the frigid air.
The scout drake had been an artist of death, and this was its masterpiece.
