10:00 AM. The sun climbed over Northveil, but it offered no warmth. There was only smoke, blood, and the distant groans of the wounded trapped amidst the ruins.
At the command hill, Rianor stood before the map. His eyes—the same eyes that usually calculated formulas and probabilities—were now fixed on the red clusters to the north. Rudigor had retreated to his final bastion, yet he still commanded tens of thousands of troops.
Hektor entered, a crystal pager in his hand. His face was taut, masking a simmering panic. "Report from all units."
"Read it," Rianor commanded.
Hektor took a breath. "Tanks: ammunition sufficient for one major engagement. Helicopters: fuel remaining for a single mission. Infantry: 23 wounded, 7 dead. Ghost Squad: sniper ammunition running low, but they can hold. Dragons: returned to the clouds, a few minor injuries."
Rianor remained silent, his gaze unmoving from the map.
Hektor waited, then finally asked, "Do we strike now?"
