Morning came gray and hollow. The battlefield that stretched across the valley was nothing but smoke and ruin. Bodies lay where they had fallen, the ground soaked dark with blood that refused to sink into the earth.
Evelyn walked through the silence with her cloak dragging against the mud. Her fingers were stiff from exhaustion, her heart heavy with names she could no longer count. Around her, the surviving warriors worked in grim silence, lifting the wounded, gathering the dead.
Every face she passed looked to her for something — comfort, strength, answers — and she gave them only a nod. Anything more, and she feared her voice would break.
George found her by what used to be the central fire pit. His armor was cracked, his left arm bound tightly in a strip of torn fabric. "The enemy retreated before dawn," he said quietly. "We've counted more than thirty gone on our side. Twice that wounded."
Evelyn's gaze shifted to the distant hills where the mist still lingered. "And Fji?"
