The silence that descended in the wake of the Shadow Hounds' demise was a heavy, suffocating thing. It was a silence born not of peace, but of profound exhaustion, a stillness that seemed to absorb the very echoes of the violence that had just transpired.
The ruined temple, our temporary sanctuary, was now a tomb consecrated with fresh death, the spectral remains of the corrupted beasts dissolving into fine, gray dust that settled on the ancient, cracked flagstones like a layer of fresh snow.
We stood in the center of the carnage, two solitary figures in a world of darkness and decay. The adrenaline of the fight, the sharp, clean focus of survival, had receded, leaving behind a raw, aching weariness that was more than just physical. It was a weariness of the soul.
Christina's hand, which had been a small, cool anchor in the storm of the battle, slipped from mine.
