The Last Stand of Vellore
The courtyard was lost. All that remained was a crater—a raw, gaping wound ripped out in the skin of the earth. Smoke crept from its rim, slow and agitated, twisting skyward like the weak sigh of something already dead. The night was quiet but for the muted hiss of settling stone. Over it all, the moon hung low and far, pale light spilling across the wreckage like a pall.
Shattered rocks twinkled dimly in the silver light of the moon, scattered over a landscape etched by ruin. Dust floated in the air, moving slowly in unseen whirlpools, reflecting light as though it, too, wept for what had been here—walls that had defended, towers that had stretched towards the sky, laughter that had rung out, lives that had been extinguished in an instant. The world was empty now, a mere scrub of jagged points and stillness.
