The silence after the just fought war was a different kind of thunder. It did not roar—it lingered, heavy, oppressive, soaking into bone. Smoke drifted like ghosts over the field where hours before men had torn each other apart. The cries of the wounded carried faintly, punctured only by the occasional groan of timber or clatter of broken armor being gathered.
Ryon sat slumped against the charred stump of a wagon wheel, his sword still clutched in his hand, though the blade sagged toward the dirt. His breaths came in ragged waves. Each inhale tasted of iron and ash, each exhale carried the burn of lungs overtaxed. His vision swam in and out, as if the world itself were undecided whether to keep him standing.
