We wait.

Through the dust-filled haze of the setting sun, we two watch the horizon from our turret atop the wall. My leather no longer wears heavy and the fleas that once left rashes on my delicate skin are gone, both eaten in desperation.

The comforting beacon of Grayfall winks across the barren wasteland between us.

An army two hundred strong watches us, eerie in their unnatural silence of long-abandoned pitchforks and kitchenware, hungry, desperate for news. Grayfall's signal will end the debate: celebrate or ablate.

I flinch at the flash on the horizon.

Grayfall has fallen.

We wait.