The Vale of the Fallen. As the dark of the moon approached, the animals and the fauna of the sparse area disappeared.
Perhaps they saw what was coming.
Slowly it filled with the dregs of the rebellion. This was the last stand. The final rebellion by the warriors still standing, for a war that was already lost.
Dalraidans had conquered the west.
That night, and the day that followed it, they conquered the Vale of the Fallen.
When the last foreigner was gone, the Vale began the next war. A silent army of widows, sons and brothers arrived at the desolate battlefield, to walk up and down the field in search of loved ones. A pyre was lit, to burn the enemy's corpses. The remains were carried home for proper burial. And after they were gone, three bodies remained, and three children. On opposite sides of the field, three children who had never encountered each other before, shared in the knowledge that there was nothing left.
The violent tide of religion's war had swept through the Vale. And the thrust of an unknown enemy's sword had stolen their only family. Their home. Their future.