Dawn crawled across the ruins like a wounded thing. The fires had dimmed to faint embers, their smoke twisting lazily into the pale morning air. The scent of burnt earth clung to everything — armour, skin, even the wind itself.
Evelyn stood at the highest point of the fortress wall, her sword buried in the stone beside her. She had not slept. Her hands were still streaked with soot and dried blood, her hair tangled from battle, but her eyes remained sharp, refusing to close. Below her, the courtyard was filled with motion. Wolves moved among the debris, lifting the wounded, carrying the dead. The cries had quieted to murmurs, but grief hung thick as fog.
Everywhere she looked, she saw ghosts.
Alaric's laughter. The young warrior she saved from the flames. The faces of those who had followed her into the fire and never returned. She had won the battle, but victory had never felt so hollow.
