The fires had burned low by the time the council gathered.
Smoke hung over the southern square like a mourning shroud. The scent of scorched flesh and iron filled the air, thick enough to taste. Blackened bones and ruined weapons littered the stones—the remnants of a warning delivered in blood.
But the kingdom still stood.
And Riven stood with it.
He leaned against the broken base of the old watchtower, the anchor-staff propped beside him. His armor was still scorched, the ash of battle clinging to the folds of his cloak, but his eyes were sharp. Unyielding.
One by one, his closest commanders arrived.
