The battlefield lay silent at last. Smoke drifted lazily across the charred earth, carrying with it the stench of blood and burnt steel. The cries of the dying had faded into the distance, replaced by the eerie quiet that always followed the storm.
Altharion stood amidst the ruins, his breathing ragged, his armor cracked and blackened. The once-brilliant plates that had gleamed with runes were dulled, dented, and splattered with gore. His sword hung heavy in his hand, its edge chipped from the relentless clash.
He looked across the field and saw the remnants of his enemies strewn like discarded puppets. The last of the Shadow Legion had been cut down—but at a terrible price. Around him, the bodies of his own warriors lay still. Men and women who had sworn their lives to the cause now lay silent beneath the crimson-stained dirt.
"You survived," came a voice behind him.
Altharion turned slowly to see Serenya, leaning heavily on her staff, her once-pristine robes reduced to tatters. A deep gash ran across her cheek, and her eyes carried the same exhaustion that weighed on his soul.
"Barely," he answered. "But at what cost?"
She looked at the fallen, her lips tightening. "The kind of cost that wars always demand."
He clenched his jaw. It wasn't enough to survive—there had to be meaning in the survival. But standing here, in the aftermath, meaning was hard to find.
A sudden cough drew their attention. Near a shattered standard, a soldier stirred—one of theirs. Altharion rushed forward, kneeling beside the man. His chest rose and fell in shallow breaths, but his eyes fluttered open.
"Commander… is it over?" the soldier asked weakly.
Altharion hesitated, then nodded. "It's over."
The man exhaled, a faint smile on his lips, before his body went limp.
Serenya closed her eyes and whispered a brief prayer. Altharion rose, feeling the crushing weight of every life lost.
The wind shifted, carrying the faint sound of hooves. Instinct gripped him, and he turned toward the horizon. Emerging from the haze came a small column of riders—scouts from the Eastern Alliance. Their leader, a scarred man in silver armor, dismounted quickly.
"Lord Altharion," the rider said, bowing slightly. "Reinforcements are on the way. We came as soon as the front broke."
"You're too late," Altharion said, his tone flat. "The fight's already over."
The man glanced at the dead littering the field and grimaced. "Then let us help with the aftermath. The wounded need tending."
Serenya nodded. "We'll need healers, supplies, and burial rites."
The rider saluted and barked orders to his men. Soon, movement began again—survivors were gathered, wounded were lifted, and the dead were covered with cloaks. The quiet was replaced with the low murmur of weary voices.
Altharion walked to the center of the field, where the great banner of the Shadow Legion lay torn and trampled. He picked it up, feeling the coarse fabric between his fingers, then tossed it onto a nearby pyre. Flames licked upward, consuming the black sigil that had haunted them for years.
As the banner turned to ash, Serenya came to stand beside him. "This is the end of one war," she said softly. "But not the end of all wars."
"I know," Altharion replied, watching the smoke rise toward the pale sky. "But for today, at least, we've earned the dawn."
They stood in silence as the first rays of sunlight pierced the clouds, casting light over the ruin. It wasn't peace—not yet—but it was the first step toward it. And sometimes, a step was all they had.
Far away, in the smoldering shadows of the broken citadel, something stirred. A faint ember of power—one that had not been extinguished.
The war might have ended here. But the true battle was still waiting to begin.