The battlefield was silent.
Silent in that eerie, unnatural way that follows carnage—when even the air seems to hold its breath, unwilling to disturb the weight of death still clinging to the ground. Ash drifted down like gray snow, mingling with blood-darkened earth. The once-proud banners of rival packs lay shredded, unrecognizable beneath soot and smoke. The bodies of fallen rogues, allies, and innocents lay together in a macabre tapestry, united at last in stillness where no oath, crown, or ambition could divide them.
Aria stood at the center of it all, the triplets at her side, their bond flaring between them like a pulse. She could feel Tobias's rage still simmering under his skin, Dorian's grief like a stone in her chest, and Marcus's cold, sharp fury keeping them upright when exhaustion threatened to bring them down.
