The tent was silent.
Only the sound of the wind brushing against the flaps echoed through the quiet camp. It was the kind of silence that pressed against the skin — heavy, unmoving, almost sacred. Luther sat with Alina in his arms, her small frame trembling as she clutched the front of his cloak. He could feel her heartbeat against his chest — faint, rapid, desperate — as though she still hoped that someone, anyone, would rise from the dead around them.
But there was no one left.
Outside, the cold wind carried the faint scent of ash and iron. The air shimmered faintly — and then, before their eyes, the people who had been lying sick on the ground began to change. One by one, their bodies loosened, the pale hue of their skin fading into motes of silver dust. The sound of the wind deepened, lifting the dust like a breath of release.
Luther tightened his grip on Alina as he watched.
