There were hundreds of screams. Hundreds of groans, shouts, sobs, and prayers , all of them tangled into a single maddened roar that no longer sounded human. The battlefield was alive, moaning and writhing like some wounded beast, every sound birthing another pain, every cry feeding the endless echo of dying men.
And yet, for Alpheo, there was nothing.
Nothing but silence.
The world had gone mute the moment Egil fell to the ground.
He did not remember drawing breath, nor commanding his horse to move. He simply was.
Around him, men screamed and bled, clutched their torn bellies or begged the heavens to be merciful, but to Alpheo it all blurred into a single, colorless hum.
He was deaf, blind, and yet painfully aware , as though his mind had shrunk into a single, pulsing thought.
And even that was overwhelmed by fear.
