The retreat was disciplined.
That, more than anything else, unsettled Lyra.
They did not scatter. They did not abandon their wounded. They withdrew in staggered lines, leaving just enough presence to discourage pursuit, just enough distance to suggest restraint. It was the kind of pullback that said failure had been acknowledged, not accepted.
Lyra watched from the wall until the last movement vanished into the lowlands.
“They’re not done,” Tyler said quietly.
“No,” Lyra replied. “They’re simplifying.”
He frowned. “Meaning.”
“When pressure and precision fail,” she said, “people reach for endings.”
Tyler’s jaw tightened. “Clean ones.”
“Or dramatic ones,” Lyra added. “Depends who’s in charge now.”
The outpost spent the morning resetting.
Bodies removed. Blood scrubbed from stone—d
