The Voice in the Square
The afternoon sun hung high, burning through the thin veil of smoke still clinging to the capital. Vel, once proud and golden, now wore its wounds openly—blood dried into the cobblestones, broken banners fluttering weakly in the faint wind. The air smelled of ash, iron, and a kind of uneasy silence that always came after battle.
Everywhere Leon's army had passed, the world bore scars. Swords lay half-buried in mud, the stone paths streaked red where soldiers had dragged bodies toward the pyres. The sound of distant hammering echoed faintly—repairs beginning even as the echoes of death refused to fade.
