The battle raged for hours.
Elara worked without stopping, her hands moving from one wounded warrior to the next, her gift flowing until she was faint with exhaustion. The healing hut overflowed with the injured—screaming, bleeding, dying. She saved some. She lost others. Each death was a weight on her heart, a name she would carry forever.
The air was thick with the smell of blood and herbs and sweat. Marta moved beside her, her old hands steady, her face grim. Other healers worked in the corners, doing what they could, but the wounded kept coming.
Through it all, Elara listened for news. For Caleb's name. For Damon's. For any word that they were still alive.
The sounds of battle faded as the sun began to set. Then, suddenly, silence.
It was the silence of exhaustion, of regrouping,
