Morning arrived slowly, but brought no warmth. Sunlight crept between the leaves of the western forest, illuminating the battlefield that had become a stage of disgrace. Broken branches, lingering traces of magical explosions, and the scattered corpses of common zombies filled the air with the stench of burnt flesh and rotting blood.
Three figures lay among the ruins and charred debris. Their breaths were labored, their clothes tattered, and the wounds on their bodies spoke louder than any words left unspoken.
Aurelia, the haughty mage in the crimson robe, now lay limply on the roots of a large tree. Her red hair was matted with blood, her robe torn across the shoulders and back. Her eyes stared blankly at the sky through the swaying branches.
"What... really happened yesterday...?" she whispered faintly, her voice like a thin breeze trying to escape reality.
