The battle had ended after an hour, but the forest still felt restless. Smoke curled from scorched trees, and blood soaked the dirt where bodies lay scattered, soldiers, mages, knights, all felled in a whirlwind of magic and steel. Mana lingered in the air like a ghost, flickering faintly between the ruined branches and shattered trunks.
In the middle of it all, Viscount Gantarel still stood.
He bore no weapon, made no attempt to flee. His cloak was tattered, his face dirtied with ash and blood, but his posture remained straight. Dignified. Defeated. Yet unbroken.
He knew he wouldn't leave this forest alive.
Lumberling approached, flanked by Vaenyra, Thessalia, and Aurelya, their footsteps quiet in the aftermath, their expressions unreadable. They stopped before the old noble, who regarded them with a tired but sharp gaze.
"It's rare to see elves in this place," the viscount said, voice gravelly but calm. "Let alone siding with someone from the Pentaline Empire."
