A few minutes after Velra's escape, the battlefield had fallen eerily quiet.
The first thing the soldiers did was set up a tent for Alice. They worked quickly, still riding the aftershock of the battle's tension and awe.
Alice didn't refuse. Exhaustion weighed heavy on her body—her sword arm ached, her breathing was ragged, and her vision still flickered with afterimages from Velra's blinding light.
Inside the tent, she finally sat down, the warmth of the brazier barely cutting through the chill that seeped into her bones.
Not long after, the tent flap rustled. Bardic, the knight commander who had been guarding her side throughout the battle, stepped in. His armor was scratched and dusted with snow, his expression sharp as ever.
He stood silently for a moment, watching Alice as she removed her gloves, her fingers trembling slightly.
Then, his voice cut through the quiet.
"Why didn't you shoot the bow? Or before that—why didn't you strike when you had the chance?"
