Dawn, morning light and rosy clouds hang in the east.
Yesterday's dark clouds scattered, the torrential rain ceased, but the atmosphere inside the South-Garrison Pass still carried a trace of heaviness.
One by one, large flatbed carts were slowly pulled by mules to the southern city wall, the thick hooves stepping on the water-logged cobblestones, splashing sounds of water.
The soldiers driving the mules wore solemn expressions, gazing sadly at the bodies being carried out from the pass.
Some were relatively intact, while others were mere remnants of limbs, with an identification plaque hanging among the flesh, stacked upon the stretchers—their deaths tragic.
Not far behind the city gates, a temporary camp for wounded soldiers had been set up.
From afar, one could hear the moans and screams coming from inside, mixed with frantic cries for help, causing the passing soldiers to sigh and shake their heads.
