Squads fanned out across the blood-soaked clearing. The kneeling Coalition warriors offered no resistance as their arms were pulled behind their backs and tightly bound. Many were still trembling too hard to even lift their heads.
Sol remained where he was for a while longer, resting the Dreadwing Blade against his shoulder as he watched the process in silence.
The neon-crimson glow in his eyes had dimmed slightly, though the cold pressure of his presence still blanketed the field.
Only when the majority of the prisoners had been restrained did he finally allow himself to exhale.
The manic edge that had driven him through the slaughter of the Zharun was gone, replaced by a deep, bone-heavy weariness. The mysterious void in his head that had hungrily consumed every soul he harvested remained silent and unreadable.
No sense of fullness. No feedback. Just an empty, bottomless quiet that somehow felt more unsettling than before.
