Ash rained from the heavens. Alisandra Vale, once hailed as the Crimson General of the North, stood bloodied and surrounded. The battlefield — once her symphony — had betrayed her. Her soldiers, bound to her by honor, had long since been cut down. The war council she had once led had turned against her, accusing her of treason, a lie whispered into the ears of kings by jealous nobles.She had held the line at Fort Ellion for six nights with only a tenth of the army. Her body bore the price: a shattered rib, gashes running down her arms, and her sword chipped from relentless battle. And now, with the banner of her kingdom raised by her enemies, she knew.
This was not the death of a soldier.
It was the execution of a scapegoat.