The grey snow fell not from the clouds, but from the smoldering bones of the world.
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]
Bram spit a dark glob of phlegm into the snow. "How many left, Captain?"
"Enough to carry the memory," Silas replied, his voice barely louder than the whistling wind. "And that is all we have left." The grey snow fell not from the clouds,
Silas looked back at the small, shivering cluster of campfires tucked into the ruins of a collapsed watchtower. A handful of hollow-eyed refugees and three wounded soldiers were all that remained of a proud garrison.
"They aren't coming back for it, Silas," a voice rasped through the fog. Assuming the Lowlands haven't burned just as bright
Silas pulled a heavy leather skin from his belt and uncorked it. Instead of water, it contained a thick, shimmering oil—rendered from the fat of the fallen beasts that now stalked the ruins. He poured a single drop onto the shield's surface.