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The citadel gates groaned open at dusk. The knights returned in silence, their formation broken, steps uneven. Some bore wounds, others carried the weight of fallen comrades on makeshift stretchers. The smell of ichor clung to armor and cloth, bitter and acrid, impossible to wash away. Emil felt it seep into his very skin, as though the Shuura’s touch lingered long after their bodies had turned to ash. No one spoke loudly. The courtyard, usually alive with the noise of training, fell into a hush broken only by the creak of leather and the shuffle of boots. Those who had stayed behind watched from shadows, their eyes wide, their questions stifled. Emil moved with the others toward the armory, unbuckling straps with stiff hands. His sword felt heavier than it had that morning, weighted no
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