Night blanketed the Frostfields, but the battlefield still burned in memory. The snow was black with blood, the plain littered with corpses—man, horse, and steel alike. Even in victory, the cost was heavy.
Cael walked among the wounded, his cloak dragging through crimson slush. The moans of dying men carried on the cold wind, mingling with the clink of armor as healers and priests moved from body to body. Torches flickered against the canvas of makeshift tents, throwing long shadows across the weary host.
Every victory brought glory. But it also brought ghosts.
“Highness.”
It was Ser Alaric, helm tucked under his arm, armor scored with cuts. His gray eyes carried both fatigue and defiance. “The men wish to see you. They… they need your word tonight.”
Cael nodded, though his heart was
