Three days of running. Three days of fighting.
They had fought through more than a dozen battles across the Crimson Steppes, crushing over a million Scourge and more than a hundred infected Grand Magi. Nothing had managed to stop the Floating Tortoise.
But the cost was written across every face on the deck.
Dwarves slumped against the railings, their eyes bloodshot from exhaustion and their armor stained with dust, blood, and Scourge remains. Some had barely spoken for hours, while others simply sat with their weapons resting across their knees, too tired to do anything more than watch the endless grassland pass by.
The ark itself was in no better condition.
Deep scars and dents covered its metal hull, several sections of the outer plating had been damaged, and one of the Ironstar Pillars had developed a long crack running almost its entire length. The formation lines carved into its surface flickered weakly, struggling to maintain their connection with the Star Plaque.
