The morning that followed wasn't a sunrise—it was a flicker of gold buried beneath choking clouds of ash. The air was heavy with dust and blood, thick enough to sting the eyes and burn the lungs. Every soldier who still stood could feel it—the trembling of the world beneath their boots.
Kaelion stared across the shattered plain from what was left of their command ridge. The Saintess's barrier had been stretched thin, its light now faint and unsteady, like the last glow of a candle fighting the wind. Below him, the surviving forces of the vanguard were reorganizing into battered lines, tending to the wounded, salvaging weapons from the fallen.
Behind him stood Nock, Seraphine, Darien, and the Saintess herself. None of them spoke at first. There were no words strong enough to soften the sight before them.
