The Weight of Silence
The sun had climbed higher now, hanging pale and merciless above the shattered capital. Its light spilled across the courtyard like molten gold, burning against the white stone stained dark by blood. The sounds of battle had begun to fade—no more clashing steel, no more shouts of dying men—just the quiet scrape of armor, the soft murmurs of soldiers tending to the aftermath.
Leon stood in the courtyard's center, his cloak stirring in the faint wind. Around him, the air still carried the ghost of heat from his last fight—the scorched ground where his magic had torn through the rebellion's heart. The scent of ash clung to everything, sharp and heavy.
Beside him, Natsha stood silent. Her bob-cut hair framed her face, her black eyes reflecting the broken sky. She looked thinner in the sunlight, smaller somehow, as though grief had carved something out of her.
The wind stirred again, carrying faint echoes of movement from the ruined gates.
