Not What I'd Planned

*Ryatt*

Twin Rivers is nothing but ash and stone as I walk beside Westfall through a wall of heavy fog tinged with smoke. It ripples around my boots as each of my steps echo in the nothingness the last battle left behind.

Over the mind-link, I hear the voices of my commanders rattling off the names of their dead. My father’s royal army has pushed into the Roguelands like I expected, and I had my own forces retreat to the Deadlands, the last holdout before the coven, and Veiled Valley.

Through the fog, I see the flickering lights of Rifthold across the bridge, the very bridge one of my commanders begged to have destroyed. It wouldn’t have prevented this carnage. We are mere wolves against an enemy with power stolen from others and manipulated to mirror death at every turn.

In the end, there will be nothing left of my territory. Those packs that do survive will have to rebuild.

All I can do is give them a final parting gift by destroying Rifthold in its entirety, even though it will