Chapter 41: The Scars We Bear
The silence after the battle was heavy with exhaustion and grief. The green fog had receded, slinking back to the east like a whipped animal, but it left behind a scarred and broken world. The air still carried the acrid taint of corruption, and the ground where the Reanimates had fallen was blighted, patches of soil turned black and lifeless.
Alistair moved through Vance Haven like a ghost. His arms ached from the fight, and a deep weariness had settled into his bones. He helped where he could—hauling debris, carrying water to the wounded—but his mind was elsewhere, trapped in the moment the gate had shattered.
They had won. By any measure, they had won a great victory. They had faced an unimaginable horror and held their ground. The alliance between Blue-Skin and Graxian was now forged in blood and shared loss, stronger than any treaty.
But the cost was etched on every face and in the very land itself.
He found Thora near the central fire, overseeing the care of the wounded. Her left arm was bandaged from a deep gash, but her eyes were clear and sharp.
"We lost twelve," she said without preamble, her voice flat. "Four of ours. Eight of theirs. Twice that many wounded."
Alistair closed his eyes. Twelve. Names and faces flashed in his mind. He saw the young Graxian, Finn, who had bravely stood with a hammer far too heavy for him. He saw an older Blue-Skin hunter who had taught the children how to track. Gone.
"And the gate is destroyed," Thora continued. "A quarter of the palisade is weakened. We are exposed."
Before Alistair could respond, Grok approached. The massive chieftain moved with a new stiffness, a deep cut on his brow still weeping blood. He carried his resonance hammer like it was part of his arm.
"The clan will send more warriors," Grok stated, his voice a low rumble. "And stone-cutters. We will build a new gate. Not of wood. Of stone. A gate that will not break."
It was a monumental offer. The labor and resources required would be immense. It was also a profound declaration. The Graxians were not just allies; they were partners in rebuilding.
Alistair nodded, gratitude warring with guilt. "Thank you, Grok."
Grok grunted. "Do not thank me. It is necessity. Varg showed us his new face. He will be back. And he will not make the same mistake twice." He fixed his dark eyes on Alistair. "He learned from this fight, Earth-Shaker. He learned of the song."
The song. The Blue-Skins' ancient melody had been their salvation, a surprise weapon that had turned the tide. But now the secret was out.
Thora's face was grim. "The song is a prayer to the living world. It strengthens what is natural and pure. It weakens what is twisted and false. But Varg... he is a quick learner. He will find a way to counter it. To twist it. Or to make his corruption strong enough to ignore it."
A cold knot tightened in Alistair's stomach. They had revealed their trump card. The next attack would not be a mindless horde. It would be something smarter, something adapted.
He looked around at his wounded, grieving people, at the shattered remains of his gate, at the blighted patches of earth that refused to heal. They had survived, but they were vulnerable. The victory felt like a pause, not an end.
The scars of the battle were not just on their bodies and their walls. They were on their spirits. And the deepest scar of all was the knowledge that their enemy was still out there, learning, growing, and festering in the dark.
They had won the day, but they had also given the blight a priceless lesson. The next time it came, it would not be a storm to be weathered.
It would be a surgeon's knife, aimed precisely at the heart of their hope.