Morning broke with a thick fog hanging low over the Eastern Mountains. The air was damp and heavy, laced with the faint scent of sulfur. In the distance, black smoke from the ruined logistics route still billowed lazily into the sky, the aftermath of Borch and Thorne's handiwork last night.
Rianor stood before the stone table in the makeshift command post, a cramped room that had served as his workspace since the night before. The relief map in front of him was scratched in one corner, a remnant of last night's clash. His cracked glasses slipped down the bridge of his nose; he didn't bother to adjust them. His left arm hung limply, the Bracer completely dead. His right arm throbbed faintly around the cuts that were just beginning to scab over.
Roland stood beside him, his white shirt still grimy from yesterday, black hair unkempt.
