The smoke had settled. The forest, once echoing with screams and steel, now held only the crackle of fire and the whisper of wind.
Lumberling stood in silence beside a low ridge, overlooking the clearing where they had gathered the fallen.
Seven boars and their riders.
Four archers.
Twelve from the hunter units.
Five from the militia.
The wolves had taken wounds, slashes, burns, but none had died. Shade sat coiled in shadow, one eye watching the pyres.
The elite squads had held. Injured, bruised, bloodied, but not broken. No deaths.
A hard-earned blessing.
Krivex stepped beside him, holding a folded strip of bark parchment.
"Names of the dead," he said quietly.
Lumberling took it, fingers brushing the inked lines with care. "We'll carve them into stone when we get back."
"And burn them here?" Skitz asked, approaching with a torch.
"Yes," Lumberling replied.
Together, they turned to the pyres.
