The rain had not stopped for two days. It fell without mercy, washing away the blood, the banners, and the names of the fallen. What was once a field of war had turned into a graveyard of mud and ghosts.
Isla stood at the edge of the valley, wrapped in a worn cloak, watching the storm blur the horizon. The cries of soldiers were gone now—only the soft whisper of rain remained. She had ordered the wounded to be treated first, no matter their allegiance. The dead were buried side by side, their faces covered by the same drenched cloth.
It was peace, but not the kind she had ever imagined.
Behind her, a few surviving officers gathered in silence, their armor dull and dented. None of them knew what to call her now—queen, commander, or the woman who ended everything. Titles had lost their meaning somewhere in the blood and fire.
