The scrying table inside the Aethelgard throne room displayed a completely barren projection of the Third Continent. Voranthar stared at the crystalline surface.
Every single golden marker representing his desert fortresses, supply depots, and hidden bunkers had vanished overnight.
A bloodied scout knelt on the marble floor behind the throne. His armor bore deep scorch marks, and his breathing hitched with every exhale.
"They bypassed our garrisons to slaughter everyone inside," the scout reported, keeping his eyes glued to the floor tiles. "The western army collapsed the subterranean bunkers inward. Our water supplies turned to poison in a matter of hours."
Voranthar gripped the armrests of his gilded chair. His knuckles turned entirely white under the strain. He looked at the vast expanse of the holographic desert, realizing the enemy now held absolute control over the landmass leading directly to his borders.
