The light was fading from the world for him. He rose up a hand to his face to shield one eye. It wasn't chariots he seeing any longer, but candles, being blown out by a breeze. It was far too much, far too easily. Never before had he seen his chariots be made to look so weak.
When the Stormfront infantry arrived, finally catching up with their cavalry, it was all over. Any hopes of those handful of chariots returning back to camp were lost. They were brutalized where they stood, and hardly a thought was spared for the damage that was inflicted.
It was a horror. To see such beautiful machinery treated so casually. If ever there was a better display of barbarity, Zilan knew it not. Even the warlords further to the east in Verna, who had not yet sworn loyalty to the Emperor, knew not to make such ruins of their spoils of war. They did everything that they could to capture the beautiful pieces of equipment that they called chariots, ensuring that not a mark was left on them.
