The city's roar dies slow, like a tide pulling back to reveal broken reefs. Molten rivulets cool into black seams. Fires still spit from collapsed roofs, but the organized chaos—the shrill alarm, the coordinated counterattacks—gives way to stunned silence.
Men and women stagger from alleyways, some clutching scorched cloth, some carrying the wounded. Monsters stand in ranks where human lines once held, their armor dented, their breath steaming in the night air.
At the shattered main gate, the surviving Ember captains—smudged, bloodied, their banners in tatters—form a trembling line. Behind them, the city's militia huddles; many lower-ranked soldiers sink to their knees as the truth of the defeat settles. Above, banners of the five rulers and the black standard of Erevaris hang side by side, an ugly new constellation.
