The wind howled through the ruined skeletons of the old factory—empty windows like hollow eyes, rusted beams like ribs of a long-dead giant.
It carried the scent of scorched metal, blood, and something deeper.
Regret.
Shadow trails still lingered—black, claw-like etchings scorched into the stone. Markers of pain. Proof of chaos.
An entire village… gone.
Not by accident.
By design.
(This place… all of it… I made it. The corpses. The echoes. The grief. My own canvas… dressed in shadow and ash.)
We stood in the wreckage, the last breath of battle still lingering in the dust.
"Is everyone... okay?" I asked, voice barely more than a rasp.
Lily stumbled to her feet, clutching her ribs. Her icy armor cracked and blood seeped through her suit.
"I've been better," she muttered, trying to smile—but her lips trembled.
