In the far southeast, near the jagged borderlands between Northem and Estalis, the air was heavy with dust and despair. Inside a rickety carriage, that served as General Turik's hospital bed, Commander Gareth leaned forward, his expression grave as he conveyed dire news to the man who sat slumped across from him, framed by shadows that danced like specters in the dim light.
General Turik's face was pale, every movement betraying the agony of his shattered legs bound in rough wooden splints. Mira's bitter concoction dulled the edge of the pain but offered little else. Sweat clung to his brow as Gareth forced the words out.
"General… we cannot return to Carles. The city has fallen. Marlon Norse and his son had retaken it."
Turik lurched forward, his instinct to rise immediate, but agony ripped through him. He collapsed back onto the boards, gasping, his body trembling under the weight of his failure. Only the crude planks lashed to his legs kept the bones from grinding further.
