The fire along the riverbank had died down, leaving only smoldering embers and the faint crackle of ash as the wind stirred the ruins. By morning, the battlefield was silent, save for the crows circling overhead. The warriors buried their dead in silence, marking the graves with stones and whispered prayers.
Zaria stood among them, her cloak heavy with soot and her eyes red from sleeplessness. Each name carved into the stone felt like a wound in her chest, but she carried them quietly, refusing to let grief dull the fire she had promised to keep alive.
When the last grave was sealed, Damian approached her. His usually sharp attire was torn, his arm still bandaged, but his presence was steady like a fortress refusing to crumble even when the world pressed against its walls.
“It’s time,”
