The battlefield still smoked when the sun broke through the thinning clouds.
Crows circled above the ridge, their caws sharp against the silence that followed the fighting. Blood streaked the mud, dark and sticky. Bodies, mercenary and soldier alike, lay twisted along the road and down the slopes, abandoned where they had fallen. The air smelled of iron, of sweat, of burned leather.
Kaelen stood among the wreckage, his sword heavy in his hand. His chest rose and fell with the effort of each breath, though the battle had ended. The pounding in his ears had not.
“Check the wounded,” Roran’s voice rasped, rough but steady. He leaned on his axe, blood soaking one arm from shoulder to wrist. His weathered face was hard as stone, though Kaelen saw the lines of strain carved deeper than before
