The dust of battle hung thick over the old mill road, a choking mixture of smoke, sweat, and the coppery tang of blood. Rowan stood over the fallen Butcher, chest heaving, armor battered and scorched, yet unbroken. Around him, the levy moved with heavy steps, checking the wounded, dragging the dead to the sides. The air was full of groans, whispers of pain, and ragged breaths that spoke of men who had seen too much too quickly.
I walked among them, feeling the faint pulse of my Steel Low aura against my skin. It was weak, but enough to steady them, enough to show that survival was possible even in the chaos of death. Faces lifted at my approach — wide eyes, trembling hands, fear etched into every line. Yet beneath the fear, I saw sparks: courage newly born from the fire of battle.
Twelve of our hundred levies would not rise again. Names flashed through my mind, faces pressed against the dirt in silent accusation. I clenched my jaw, swallowing the guilt that rose like bile. Each life lost was a wound to the soul of Ashenvale, yet the living pressed on, holding discipline in trembling hands and shaking legs.
Some of the bandits — the ones who had followed the Butcher out of fear rather than loyalty — dropped their weapons at our feet. They flinched under our gaze, eyes wide, some trembling, others crying quietly. Rowan spat and shook his head, fists tight. He wanted blood; I saw it in the set of his jaw.
"Do not kill them," I said firmly, my voice cutting across the yard. "They are broken men. We need hands to mend homes, haul ore, carry water. We cannot waste lives for the sake of vengeance alone."
Rowan's eyes flashed, but he gave a slow nod, the anger in him simmering but controlled.
James moved among the men, counting coins and supplies with careful hands, ledger balanced on a wooden plank. "Over five hundred silver marks recovered," he said, voice tight. "And a few gold marks hidden by the Butcher. Enough to keep Ashenvale fed for months, if we ration wisely."
The clink of coins in sacks was a small comfort, a fragile thread of hope in the midst of devastation. Supplies, weapons, money — these were survival, tangible proof that the fight had not been in vain.
A cloud of dust rose on the ridge. Jarek appeared, riding hard, horse snorting, cloak ragged but posture firm. He dismounted quickly, saluted, and spoke with clipped precision.
"All accounted for, my lord," he reported. "The refugees from the Butcher-controlled villages are safe in Ashenvale Castle. No harm came to them."
Relief rolled through me in a hot, sudden wave. "Good. Keep them within the inner bailey. Roderic will see to their quarters and rations. Make sure they are fed and safe — no one left exposed."
I turned to the map, pinned hastily to a splintered table: two villages remained, each controlled by a lieutenant. Both were fortified, both waiting for our approach. We could not face them together; it would be a slaughter.
"Divide the force," I commanded. "Rowan, east. James, west. Jarek will guide the refugees to the castle and secure the roads. I ride with Rowan — my aura is weak, but I can direct men and protect the villagers if things turn ugly."
Rowan's eyes narrowed, exhaustion and determination warring in his gaze. "We'll crush them, my lord," he said quietly. "But they've fortified. They will not give the villages easily. The blood we shed will be thick."
"Don't worry about that, Sir Rowan," I said, voice low but firm. "We survive because we plan, not because we strike blindly."