The village of Frostvale appeared peaceful from the air, nestled in a valley where three streams converged. Wooden buildings with thatched roofs clustered around a central square, smoke rising from chimneys in thin grey lines. Fields surrounded the settlement—currently fallow for winter, but showing signs of careful cultivation.
It looked exactly as Jaenor remembered from childhood. Small, isolated, the kind of place where everyone knew everyone else's business.
Home.
But as Ba'narussa descended, circling lower, the illusion of peace shattered.
Military encampments surrounded the village like a noose. Hundreds of tents in organized formations, training yards where soldiers drilled, supply wagons arranged in defensive perimeters. And the soldiers themselves—two distinct forces that clearly weren't cooperating smoothly.
