The Morning After the Storm
Natsha looked at him, her voice barely above a whisper.
"For who?"
Leon didn't answer.
The silence said enough.
The capital of Vellore breathed again—slowly, painfully—like something reborn into a world that had forgotten kindness. Smoke still rose from the western quarter, curling above rooftops that had once glimmered with pride. Now they were ash and ruin. The red river that cut through the heart of the capital no longer reflected the moon—it ran dark and heavy, dyed crimson by the blood of those who fought for rebellion and those who died defending it.
Leon stood on the terrace overlooking the city, his cloak tattered, his eyes distant. The wind carried the metallic scent of blood and burnt stone. His fingers flexed unconsciously, as if the memory of battle still pulsed through his veins.
