The storm had passed, but the sky still trembled as if afraid of what remained beneath it. The battlefield stretched endless and blackened, a scar across the plains where the Grid once hummed. Smoke still rose from the craters, curling like dying breaths into the cold air.
Cain stood in the center of the ruin, coat torn, his sword—{Eidwyrm}—half-buried in the cracked earth. The air was thick with the metallic tang of blood and iron dust. His every breath burned, every muscle screamed, but he didn't move. His eyes, dark and cold, were fixed on the horizon where faint golden embers still drifted like dying stars.
Behind him, Roselle's boots crunched over ash. "You're bleeding again."
Cain didn't answer.
She stopped beside him, watching the same horizon. "The Daelmonts' stronghold is gone. Their relay collapsed. We won."
Cain pulled {Eidwyrm} free, its edge whispering through the air. "No," he said. "We only broke a chain. The hand holding it is still alive."
