The morning after the battle broke quietly over Ravenclaw. Smoke still curled from the wreckage, faint tendrils rising into the pale dawn like ghosts refusing to leave. The earth was black with ash, the scent of blood and burned wood lingering heavy in the air. Evelyn stood at the heart of it all — the woman who had turned despair into survival.
She had not slept. Her eyes were rimmed red, her armor still stained with the soot of battle. Around her, the warriors moved slowly, carrying bodies to be buried and clearing what remained of the village square. The air hummed with exhaustion and disbelief — they had won, but the victory felt hollow.
"Luna," one of the younger wolves called softly, approaching her with a bowed head. "The eastern trench is ready. The fallen can be laid to rest now."
Evelyn nodded. Her voice came quiet, raw from smoke and grief. "I'll come."
