The Wistful Saga

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2026-08-20 14:35:30 -

The Wistful Saga

The rain on the shield was not water. It was a cold, gray slurry of mud and ash that tasted of iron and old blood. I wiped my eyes with a forearm slicked in gore, trying to see the shape of the man who had just driven his spear through my left flank. We were in the trench line, a muddy scar dug into the side of the hill overlooking the valley of Ashworth. The air was thick, suffocating, a...

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