A few seconds of stillness lingered on the deck, broken only by the soft crackle of dying fire and the hiss of the waves slapping against the hull. The smell of scorched salt and singed sea-flesh hung faintly in the air. Above them, the clouds shifted slowly, revealing the fragile silver of a half-moon. But it was dim, and thin, as if reluctant to bear witness to what had just occurred.
A third figure stepped onto the deck.
This one carried himself more like an officer than a scout. His cloak was fastened by a metal brooch shaped like a burning thorn, and his sword—longer than the others, curved and singed with recent use—still dripped with a thin trail of blue ichor. He gave the battlefield only a cursory glance before speaking.
"He sent a mage," he said, voice flat, like someone taking inventory.
