[Lavinia's POV—Elorian Camp—Night]
The war ground still stank of blood.
Corpse smoke drifted through the air in gray ribbons, curling around tents, soaking into armor, and sinking into skin. The moon hung dull and uncaring above us, casting silver light over the battlefield that would rot by morning.
I sat outside my command tent—one leg crossed over the other, Marshi resting his massive head on my lap as I stroked him absently.
Behind me stood Haldor, Arwin, Zerith, and Osric—silent pillars of loyalty, their armor still caked in drying blood.
Before me, a man kneeled.
Chains bound his wrists, digging into skin already bruised from battle. He was battered, breathing hard… But his eyes were steady.
General Luke of Meren.
The Iron Wall.
No longer standing. Merely kneeling. Exactly where he belonged. I tilted my head, studying him like one studies a puzzle not worth solving.
