The one that still haunts me is the battle of the Whispering Gorge. It was a forgotten clash that happened on the edge of an abandoned mining town, where a small band of rebels took on a regiment of imperial guards. The gorge was narrow, the rocks like teeth, and the wind howled like a wounded animal. The rebels had only a handful of guns and a few old pickaxes, but they used the geology to their advantage, firing from behind jagged cliffs, cutting the soldiers off one by one. The guards kept coming, but they never realized that the ground itself was fighting back, collapsing tunnels and throwing up cliffs that swallowed men whole. By the end, half the guards were buried in a single, twisted rock face, and the rebels emerged with nothing but a few wounded and a scorched field that never grew again. The locals still whisper about the ghosts that still roam the gorge, rattling the old stones with their footsteps. It’s a quiet, brutal reminder that sometimes the most epic fights are buried in the cracks of forgotten places.

Thanks, that means a lot. I’ll keep my eyes on the stones and let the old echoes guide the way.