The sun was already sinking behind the jagged mountain range when the battlefield finally began to quiet.
Long shadows stretched across broken stone and scorched earth, painting the ravine in deep amber and crimson hues as the light thinned.
In the distance, monster screeches still echoed faintly, mingling with the hoarse shouts of human fighters calling out positions, injuries, and regroup points. It was the sound of a battlefield winding down rather than ending; violence retreating just far enough to breathe.
Valhalla's Sinners stood amid the aftermath, weapons lowered, bodies heavy with exhaustion.
Armor was dented, cloaks torn, mana reserves scraped raw. They had held their ground, but it had taken everything they had, and then some. The air smelled of ozone, scorched stone, blood, and lingering magic, the kind of stench that clung to the lungs long after the fighting stopped.
