First light crawled across the ridge, revealing what the darkness had mercifully hidden. Soren stared at the remnants of what had once been a proud hunting party, now reduced to hollow-eyed survivors clutching weapons they'd proven unable to use. The camp stirred with the reluctant movements of the defeated, men who had survived only to carry their shame home.
He pressed a hand against the shard beneath his shirt, its familiar coldness offering no comfort this morning. Valenna remained silent, as if waiting for something. Or perhaps judging him for his lies.
Across the makeshift camp, Lord Ashgard stood like a weathered statue, surveying his diminished command with steel-gray eyes that revealed nothing of his thoughts. His armor, practical and unadorned, bore new dents and scratches from the night's carnage. Unlike the other nobles, he made no attempt to hide the evidence of their failure.
