The dead were everywhere.
When dawn touched the valley, its silver grass was stained black with blood, its air heavy with smoke and the stink of ash. The ruins still pulsed faintly, light flickering along the cracks of the dais as though reluctant to sleep again.
Elinora stood at the center of it all, the Spine across her knees, and let the silence settle. She had learned long ago that silence after a battle spoke louder than screams. It told of those who would never rise, of breath stolen and blades dulled.
Her wolf pressed close. The valley is drinking this. Every drop. Every cry. It grows with it.
Riven’s boots crunched on broken stone as he crossed to her. His face was drawn, blood spattered along his arm. “Seventeen dead,” he said. “Nine Moonfang riders, six of ours, two too torn
