The mountain winds of Iron Hearth usually carried the crisp, invigorating scent of pine and the fiery spirit of a booming industry. But today, the air in the capital of Northreach felt heavy, as if the dark clouds hanging low in the sky bore the crushing weight of the thousands of lives extinguished in Northveil. Along the main thoroughfare leading toward the castle, the citizens—usually bustling with trade and talk of progress—stood in a haunting, deathly silence. They watched a procession that was far from the grand return they had hoped for. Logistics trucks with bodies riddled with bullet holes, command SUVs with windshields shattered into a thousand spider-webs, and infantrymen sitting in open trailers with heads bowed, their uniforms charred by steam explosions and stained with soot.
This was not a hero's homecoming. It was a funeral procession for a fallen dream.
