The Migzar forces' camp, with the wind blowing the flags.
The fabrics fluttered vigorously, setting the rhythm of a camp that, despite its apparent stillness, was far from calm.
The soldiers moved back and forth in their heavy armor, its clanging echoing everywhere. As for the knights who hadn't made a move… well, not all of them had made a move.
Some stood motionless, watching, waiting like pieces that had not yet been moved.
They were waiting for orders from General Darion, who looked at them with a calm expression, but in his eyes there was still a cruel, vengeful glint.
It wasn't calm… it was control.
His mood was at rock bottom; according to the reports he had received moments ago, the front line of the attacking soldiers had suffered miserably, falling into a trap that appeared to have been carefully planned.
It hadn't been a simple defeat. It had been calculated.
