The grey snow fell not from the clouds, but from the smoldering bones of the world.
"They aren't coming back for it, Silas," a voice rasped through the fog. Ashes of War [v1.0]
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. The grey snow fell not from the clouds,
Bram spit a dark glob of phlegm into the snow. "How many left, Captain?" Instead of water, it contained a thick, shimmering
They called it the Ashing. It had been seven years since the Great Compact was shattered, and the skies had never truly cleared.
Silas did not look up. He knew the heavy, labored breathing of Bram, his squad’s last surviving shield-bearer. "I know," Silas murmured. "I’m just checking for salvage. Every scrap of iron counts if we are going to make it through the Pass."