Morning broke gray and hollow, as though even the sun hesitated to rise over what Serenya had done.
The camp stank of smoke and blood. Corpses lay where they had fallen,Malrik’s riders blackened and twisted, their armor melted into grotesque shapes. Not a single mercenary dared touch them.
Instead, they sat in clusters, huddled near guttering fires, speaking in low voices that swelled and broke like waves. Their words carried sharp edges, every glance cutting toward the woman who sat apart.
Serenya.
She was where she had been all night, staff across her knees, cloak draped like a shroud. Pale hair clung damply to her face. She had not moved, not spoken, not even closed her eyes. It was as if the world itself had recoiled from her.
Kaelen cleaned his sword with mechanical care, though
