The high ground was theirs, but the cold offered no victory.
Leon stood beneath a jagged outcrop, the wind whipping across the cliff face as the vanguard reorganised below. The ridge they'd claimed stretched far to the east, curving like a broken spine above the enemy camp. From here, they could see everything—tents torn down in haste, the last remnants of a routed force fleeing into the deep pine forest.
He watched the treeline. Too neat. Too fast.
"They're not running," he murmured.
Elena, standing just behind him, followed his gaze. "They're leading us."
Leon didn't reply. He already knew.
Behind them, the soldiers moved with grim efficiency. The dead had been cleared from the ridge and lined in silence. Kellen had begun setting up a temporary camp, barking orders in low, clipped tones. They had no plans to stay long. The earth here was too loose for trenches, and the high ground too exposed for fire mages to anchor spells.
