Ash, Dew, and the Weight of Goodbye
The morning came slowly.
A dull, grey sun hung over the scarred horizon, dragging its light across a battlefield that still breathed smoke. The air was thick with the scent of scorched stone and damp earth. Every gust carried traces of ash — reminders of the fight that had torn through the night.
Leon stood at the edge of the ruined field; the remnants of battle sprawled far behind him. His cloak fluttered weakly in the cold wind, snapping softly against his legs. Gold eyes, calm and unblinking, took in the devastation and the fragile promise of dawn all at once, as if he were weighing what had been lost against what had survived.
