White Mountain's morning was shrouded in thin mist. The air was filled with bleakness and chill, while mournful singing drifted from afar. The elves were gathering their companions' corpses from the battlefield, and faint sobs occasionally broke the loneliness and silence beneath the morning light.
A pair of wise eyes could see through the fog to the darkness and schemes hidden behind it. Those deep, black eyes silently watched the scattered bones strewn across the battlefield.
"Your Majesty, we should go back. This place isn't safe. Those maddened elves could rush over at any moment and tear us to pieces."
Her Majesty the Queen of Madara remained unmoved. She bent down, scooped up a handful of dust with her snow-white hand, then opened her palm and let the grit slip through her slender fingers.
"Can you tell what happened?"
"There are indeed traces of Black Magic from spirit-channeling. It's an extremely clumsy attempt to frame someone else. I can smell the stench of those decrepit old fools from the Undead Sequence even from here," Instaron replied.
"But they don't think so." The queen pointed toward the distant elves.
Instaron could only shrug.
"Let's go back," she said.
"We're really going back?" Instaron froze for a moment. He exchanged a glance with the stern-faced Tagus beside him, and saw the same confusion in the other man's eyes. This queen was certainly not someone who listened to advice. Once she made up her mind, the empire had to operate according to her Willpower.
"The matter is clear. What are we still doing here?" Her Majesty the Queen countered.
"But how are we supposed to explain this to those rampaging Tree-stabbers? In their eyes, the Undead Sequence and we are in league with each other." Instaron added, "In fact, we are."
"Enough nonsense.