How cruel, that a man could not even have his own time to grieve , for the world, indifferent and insatiable, simply kept going.
Five days had passed since the battle, and still the plains reeked of blood and ash. The camp was quieter now, though the silence wasn't peace, it was simply the byproduct of exhaustion of man that gave even more than their all.
The aftermath had been handled , the wounded tended, the dead burned, the prisoners gathered. Life, it seemed, had already decided to move on without him.
Of course, there had been incidents.
One of the Hounds had learned where the captured nobles were being held. The man had stolen a servant's tray , dropped his armors and slipped inside the makeshift prison with a calmness that fooled everyone. It was only when the screaming began that anyone realized what he'd done.
