The battlefield stretched silent and somber as Lyan stood amidst the remnants of the Varzadian forces. The air was heavy with the metallic tang of blood and the faint moans of the wounded. A thin fog lingered, swirling between shattered wagons and discarded weapons. Around him, his soldiers moved swiftly, securing prisoners and sweeping for stragglers. Lyan's glaive rested loosely in his hand, its blade glinting faintly as he surveyed the aftermath of the ambush.
Commander Thallus knelt before him, his once-proud armor dented and smeared with dirt and blood. His sword fell from trembling hands, clattering onto the ground.
"I concede," Thallus said, his voice hoarse. "You…'ve bested us."
Lyan's gaze bore into the man, weighing his words. The Devil Baron, as they called him, wasn't known for mercy, but Lyan had a different goal today. He nodded curtly.
