The aftermath of battle clung to Goblin's Hollow like a shroud of decay. Three days had passed since the coalition forces retreated, leaving behind the wreckage of their siege engines and the bloated corpses of their fallen. Ravens and other carrion feeders circled overhead, descending periodically to feast upon eyes and soft tissue, indifferent to the insignias that once proudly adorned the dead.
Reed stood atop the eastern wall, watching as goblin work crews dragged the coalition's dead into great pyres. The stench of burning flesh had become constant—a miasma that seeped into clothing, hair, and memory. Yet Reed found himself increasingly unmoved by it. The fragments pulsing within him seemed to consume his human revulsion, replacing it with cold, analytical observation.
