The wind returned first.
A soft, chilled breeze drifting across broken stone and scorched dirt. It carried ash and silence. Above, the clouds parted slowly, revealing scattered stars—faint and dim.
Leon sat with his back against a cracked slab, sword across his lap, eyes half-lidded. His wounds ached with every breath, but he refused to close them. Not yet.
Across from him, Elena moved carefully between the wounded. Mira assisted her, wrapping bandages, casting minor healing spells when she had the mana to spare. Tomas sat beside Alden, who groaned softly but was alive. Callen had been pulled out from beneath the rubble. He breathed.
That was enough.
Aelia lay in the center, propped up against a boulder, her cloak wrapped around her shoulders. Her face was pale but alert. She hadn't spoken much since waking.
She didn't need to.
They all felt the weight.
"How long until the next wave?" Mira asked, her voice strained.
