The storm had broken, but shadow did not vanish. It recoiled, curling into the cracks of the valley, fleeing the light yet refusing to die.
Marlic staggered into the remnants of his champions, his ember eyes dim but burning with fury. The dawn had stripped his storm, unraveling the endless night, but grief still clung to him like armor.
He raised his spear, its smoke flickering weakly. "Retreat is not defeat. Shadow endures. Flame may rise with dawn, but grief waits for dusk."
The champions bowed, their forms fractured, smoke bleeding into the earth. "Lord of Memory, where do we strike next?"
Marlic's voice was sharp, bitter. "Not here. The Ashbound are bound to their dawn. But beyond these lands, shadow still festers. We will gather in silence, rebuild in grief, and when night falls again, the storm will rise stronger."
He turned his gaze toward the horizon, where the sun blazed defiantly. His storm had faltered, but his vow remained. "Flamebearer thinks dawn breaks me. She forgets—dawn is fleeting. Night always returns."
The champions melted into the shadows, their whispers echoing with loyalty. Marlic's retreat was not surrender—it was patience.
The war was not ended. It had only shifted.