"Enough to carry the memory," Silas replied, his voice barely louder than the whistling wind. "And that is all we have left."
Bram grunted, leaning heavily on a walking axe that had long since lost its edge. "Scraps won't buy us bread in the Lowlands. Assuming the Lowlands haven't burned just as bright as the Ridge."
Instantly, the oil sizzled. A faint, ethereal glow emanated from the rust, casting a sickly blue light across Silas’s gaunt face. This was the residual echo of the magic that had ended the war. The world was dead, but the weapons still hungered. Ashes of War [v1.0]
"They aren't coming back for it, Silas," a voice rasped through the fog.
"We move at moonrise," Silas said, standing up and letting the shield fall back into the mud with a dull thud. "Gather the others. Tell them to wrap their boots in wool. The silent-striders are hunting the perimeter again." "Enough to carry the memory," Silas replied, his
The grey snow fell not from the clouds, but from the smoldering bones of the world.
Silas did not look up. He knew the heavy, labored breathing of Bram, his squad’s last surviving shield-bearer. "I know," Silas murmured. "I’m just checking for salvage. Every scrap of iron counts if we are going to make it through the Pass." Assuming the Lowlands haven't burned just as bright
Bram spit a dark glob of phlegm into the snow. "How many left, Captain?"