The sky over Northveil no longer vomited fire, but it left behind a density that was far more suffocating. The black smoke from the wreckage of the enemy landing ships—vessels that had been pulverized by Rianor's desperate sabotage—coalesced with the dirty winter clouds, creating a sky of bruised charcoal and gray. A profound silence began to crawl across the ruins, a dissonance that felt like needles against the inner ear after hours of relentless cannon fire. This was not the silence of peace; it was a "Stalemate"—a bloody, suspended animation where both sides were gasping for air, their fingers still curled around each other's throats in a cold, wordless hatred.
