The morning air was cold, thick with the scent of damp earth and the lingering, ghostly traces of smoke.
I stood at the edge of what used to be the town square, watching the Imperial Knights move through their final tasks. The soldiers worked with a practiced efficiency that spoke of years of experience, their voices kept low, their faces tired and drawn.
No one laughed and no one joked.
The weight of the village still hung over all of them like a fog that would not lift no matter how hard the sun tried to burn through it.
They were wrapping up the work. The final, grim task that always followed a slaughter.
Today was the last day. We were leaving soon.
Behind me, rows of fresh graves stretched across the field. With the help of the knights, we had spent the last two days digging holes in the cold ground.
There were no coffins.
Just linen shrouds and deep trenches dug by hands that had seen too much death already.
