The wind that morning was soft.
Soft, and honest. It smelled of ash-laced dew and overturned stone, the scent of land remembering what it once was — not a battlefield, but a nation. The ridge stretched before Eli like the edge of a faded tapestry, its earth quiet, scorched, and still holding the shape of gods.
She breathed.
And the breath stayed in her lungs.
That alone felt like a miracle.
Her shoulder ached where her arm used to be. The skin was smooth now — no open wound, no crusted blood. Just a sealed silence. The cost of survival, branded into the place she'd once held a sword.
She had not expected anyone to come.
But they did.
Three shadows emerged from the treeline — silhouettes against the broken dawn, armor tarnished by weeks of travel. The first knight removed his helmet, revealing a gaunt, weatherworn face that still managed to wear devotion like a second skin.
