The battlefield was eerily silent as the dust settled. The once-imposing fortress of Ironclad Summit now lay in ruins, its dark energy dispelled. The soldiers of Valdris gathered around their leaders, their expressions a mix of exhaustion and triumph.

Roland leaned on his sword, his armour battered but his spirit unbroken. “Another obelisk down,” he said. “They’re running out of places to hide.”

Lyra approached, her blades sheathed. “But they’re not done yet. They’ll strike back, harder than ever.”

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Cassian joined them, his bow slung over his shoulder. “Let them. We’ll be ready.”

Damien stood at the edge of the ruined fortress, Ebonfang in hand. He stared into the distance, his thoughts heavy. Each victory brought them closer to ending the war, but the cost weighed heavily on him.

Captain Orin approached, saluting. “Lord Damien, the men fought bravely. We’ve secured the summit.”

Damien nodded. “Good. See to the wounded and prepare for the next mission.”