Under the Moon of Ashes
The courtyard was gone. Only a crater remained — a jagged wound carved into the earth. Smoke drifted from its edges, curling into the still night like the breath of a dying beast. The moon hung low, pale and cold, spilling its light across the ruins. Broken stone shimmered faintly, dust dancing where once there had been walls, towers, life.
Two figures stood at the center.
One knelt. One remained standing.
The kneeling man was Aden. His armor, once a proud silver etched with the crest of Vellore, was cracked and blackened, its edges warped by flame. Blood soaked his chestplate, dripping down the engraved ridges to the dirt below. His tied grey-white hair had come undone, strands falling across his face as he coughed, spitting a thin stream of crimson. His eyes burned with exhaustion and disbelief — the gaze of a man who had lived through too many wars and was finally staring at the wall he couldn't climb.
Across from him stood Leon.
