The morning after the battle dawned, the overcast sky matched the mood that had settled over Valentra like a shroud.
Throughout the settlement, residents moved quietly, their faces marked by the losses as they began the grim work of accounting for their dead.
In the plaza's centre, bodies had been arranged in neat rows beneath sheets. The count was complete, 43 residents would never see another sunrise.
Thomas walked among the covered forms, his weathered hands shaking as he pulled back each sheet to confirm identities. His apprentice lay near the end of the row. The young man's eyes were bloodshot as Thomas gently closed them, whispering words of farewell.
"43," he reported to Maria, his voice barely above a whisper.
Maria nodded grimly, Isaac and Noah pressed close against her sides. The boys had been unusually quiet since learning of Janet's death, their normal chatter replaced by a subdued confusion that broke her heart.
"Why didn't Mrs Janet come back?" Noah asked for the third time that morning.
"She was protecting you," Maria replied, her voice gentle but strained. "Sometimes good people don't come back when they're protecting others."
Isaac, the older of the two, seemed to grasp the situation better than his brother, but that understanding only made his grief deeper as he clung to Maria's side.
Around the plaza, other families were having similar conversations. Children who'd lost parents, spouses who'd lost partners, parents who'd lost children.
Near the destroyed eastern gate, clean up efforts had already begun. Residents moved through the rubble, sorting salvageable materials from complete wreckage.
Stone blocks that could be reused went into one pile, whilst broken timber was gathered for fuel. Personal belongings, like a child's toy or someone's favourite cup were set aside with special care.
Near the medical centre, one of the patients sat motionless, staring at the scattered supplies that had saved his life. He hadn't moved in over an hour, his hands hanging at his sides as he tried to process a world without the woman who'd pulled him back from death's edge.
In contrast, Eric was attacking a pile of broken timber, hurling splintered boards into the salvage heap. Each piece he threw seemed to carry some of his rage.
"Easy," Thomas said gently, placing a hand on Eric's shoulder. "The wood's not your enemy."
Eric paused, breathing hard. "I know," he said between breaths. "I just... I need to do something with this anger."
AJ moved quietly through the destruction, his form absorbing the truly useless debris. Shattered roof tiles that couldn't be repaired, twisted metal from the smithy that was too damaged to rework, and splintered wood that was too small for any practical purpose.
The others worked alongside the residents as well, but there was something different about them. Where the others showed strong emotions like grief and sadness, the 7 friends seemed a bit more distant.
They mourned their fallen neighbours like the others, but their emotions weren't as strong, the edge had been somewhat dulled.
Victor was handling the prisoners, the captured Iron Vanguard soldiers were being put to work clearing rubble. The residents were reluctant to even look at them, wanting nothing more than to kick them out.
Sam examined his workshop with a frown, as he catalogued what could be saved. Weeks of research and experimentation lay scattered in the dirt.
Walter supervised the recovery of weapons and equipment from the battlefield, his movements careful and deliberate. Each sword, each arrow, each piece of armour was cleaned and accounted for. Some would be returned to families, others would arm future defenders.
By mid-morning, the most urgent clean up tasks were complete. The plaza had been cleared of debris, temporary shelters erected for those whose homes had been destroyed, and the essential functions of the settlement restored. But the hardest task still lay ahead.
The funeral pyre had been built in the space between the central plaza and the memorial grove, close enough to the fruit trees that the fallen could rest near those who'd died before them.
They had created a structure large enough to accommodate all 43 bodies with dignity.
As the sun reached its zenith, hidden behind the grey clouds, the entire community gathered around the pyre. The survivors, all 170 of them, formed a circle around their fallen friends and family members. The silence was broken only by quiet sobbing and the whisper of wind through the memorial trees.
Maria stepped forward, her children still pressed against her sides. She'd prepared words, but looking at the faces around her—grief-stricken, exhausted, searching for meaning in senseless loss—the formal speech she'd planned seemed inadequate.
"We gather here to remember those we've lost," she began, her voice carrying clearly across the assembled crowd. "Janet, who died protecting our children. Sarah, who died defending the patients. Thomas's apprentice, who died protecting the workshops that kept us equipped."
Her voice wavered slightly as she continued. "43 of our people gave their lives defending what we've built together. They died so that we could continue, so that their sacrifice would have meaning beyond the violence that claimed them."
She paused, looking around the circle of faces. "They died because two men couldn't accept that people chose a different path. But those men are dead now, and our friends' sacrifice ensured that their vision of fear and control died with them."
Isaac pressed closer to her side, his small body trembling. Noah had begun crying quietly, though he didn't fully understand why.
"We'll remember them," Maria concluded. "We'll carry their memory forward as we rebuild, and as we grow."
She stepped back, and one by one, residents came forward to share their memories.
Elena, one of Ethan's trainees, spoke about Janet's kindness during the early days of the settlement, how she'd helped families adjust to their new lives.
Doc Hayes stepped forward to honour Sarah's memory. "She was a healer," the doctor said simply. "She saw suffering and moved to end it, whether it was a wounded animal or a scared child. She died as she lived—protecting those who couldn't protect themselves."
Then Catherine stepped forward, her voice shaky. "Sarah once tried to give medicine to one of the sick rabbits in the pen, but it had other ideas." She paused, a slight smile touching her lips.
"Sarah chased that rabbit around the pen for 20 minutes, diving over the fence, crawling through the mud. When she finally caught it, it fought like it was possessed." A few chuckles rippled through the crowd as people remembered the scene.
"She showed up at my door an hour later, covered head to toe in mud and rabbit fur, asking for my help because 'that rabbit was going to get better whether it liked it or not.'" Catherine's voice broke slightly, but she was smiling through her tears.
The brief moment of shared laughter felt strange amidst the grief, but it was what Sarah would have wanted—to be remembered for her determination and the joy she brought to her work, not just the tragedy of her death.
Others followed, sharing brief stories and memories. A merchant spoke about David's eagerness to learn. A mother remembered how Sarah had cared for her sick daughter. An elderly man praised Janet's care for the children's education.
The stories weren't grand or heroic. They were small moments that painted pictures of ordinary people who'd tried to do good in an uncertain world.
When the speaking ended, torch bearers stepped forward. Maria lit the first torch, then passed it to Thomas, who lit his own and passed it to Doc Hayes, who passed it on in turn.
The pyre caught fire quickly, flames reaching towards the grey sky as 43 lives were committed to memory and ash. The heat drove the circle of mourners back, but no one left. They stood in silence, watching the fire.
Isaac and Noah had somewhat calmed down as they quietly hugged their mother. Maria held them close, a few tears of her own falling.
The fire burned through the afternoon and into the evening. As darkness fell, the flames provided the only light in the plaza, casting dancing shadows on the faces of the living whilst the dead found their final rest.
Gradually, people began to drift away. Parents took exhausted children home to beds. The elderly sought what comfort they could find in familiar routines. The team of 7 lingered longer than most, standing together in quiet solidarity as the flames slowly died, becoming embers.
"43," Walter said quietly, echoing Thomas's morning count.
"43 too many," Lily replied, her usual energy completely absent.
They stood in silence for a while longer, then began making their way towards their own beds. Tomorrow would bring more clean up, more planning, more of the endless work.
But tonight was for remembering, for grieving, for accepting that some prices couldn't be avoided even when victory was achieved.
In her house, Maria settled into bed with Isaac and Noah. They'd insisted on sleeping together, drawing comfort from each other's presence.
"Will the bad men come back?" Noah asked.
"No," Maria replied. "The bad men are gone forever."
"Mrs Janet is gone too," Isaac whispered.
"Yes," Maria admitted. "Mrs Janet is gone. But she made sure you were safe before she left. That's what people who love you do—they make sure you're protected, no matter what."
"I miss her," Noah whispered.
"I miss her too," Maria replied. "We'll always miss her. But we'll also remember how much she cared for you, and how brave she was, and how she helped make our home a better place."
Outside their window, the plaza was quiet except for the soft sounds of guards making their rounds. The immediate crisis was over, but the work of healing, both physically and emotionally, would take much longer.
In the darkness, Valentra began its long journey towards recovery, carrying the memory of the souls who'd paid the ultimate price for the community's survival.
The battle was won, but the cost would be remembered forever.