The Field of the Fallen was not a victory. It was a breathing space purchased with rivers of blood. The air hung thick with the smells of death and ozone, a foul perfume for the countless dead. The Britannic Cohort, though victorious, was a wounded beast, l*****g its gashes and counting its lost limbs. The cost was etched on every face, in every slumping posture.
In a quiet tent near the center of the camp, Bran lay unconscious. The four Ogham shards, now inert and dark, were placed on a small table beside his cot. He looked ancient, his skin translucent, the veins standing out in stark, dark relief. The effort of channeling the shards' purifying light had driven the Fomorii corruption deep, but it had also hollowed him out. Father Declan sat with him, his prayers a soft, constant murmur,
