By dawn, no one would remember the snow had once been white.
The ground beyond the palisade was a sprawl of carcasses, shadowfangs skewered on spears, arrows jutting from their hides, blood steaming as it bled into the snow. A dozen more lay scattered near the wall, felled by blades or crushed beneath shields. The rest had broken, slipping back into the treeline with low snarls.
Metallic and biting, the scent of blood clung to the air.
Kael's breath misted in the air. His sword still lodged in the beast beside him, he sank to his knees, chest heaving, each breath ragged.
The silence after the battle felt heavier than the clash itself. Around him, chaos lingered like smoke. Guards sprawled on the ground, breathing ragged and shallow, some watching the bodies of fallen comrades, their eyes full of guilt or regret. Lucas leaned against the palisade, armor streaked with gore, fingers brushing the hilt of his sword as if needing its weight to remind him he was still alive. His hand trembled slightly, his jaw tight, his eyes wide, as he watched the aftermath.
Kael clenched the snow in his fist, cold and red between his fingers. His knuckles ached, but he couldn't let go, couldn't stop watching. Around him, guards struggled to rise, some shaking, some silent, eyes haunted by what they had gone through.
Kael's mind spun, fragments of the battle cutting through him sharper than any claw. The field of blood, sweat, and fear pressed around him like a living weight. Every groan, every ragged breath from the guards drummed in his head. Could he do this again? Could they even survive another attack?
Kael's fist opened and closed around the snow, cold and red, as he watched the aftermath. Six guards were dead—at least the ones he could see. One of them, a boy who had shown up on the training ground two days ago, had volunteered for the fight. The boy was gone now.
Gone, and Kael didn't feel like he had the right words for it.
Around him, moans of the injured rose. He swept his gaze across the area. One guard had lost an arm, another bore deep lacerations, while others wore lighter cuts.
Kael's mind flickered to the oath, the power it promised, the strange, elusive gift that should have grown with him. If he'd progressed further… if he'd understood it better… maybe he could invoke the water element, ease some of this suffering. At least, that's what he thought.
The thought was bitter now.
A shout cut through the cold, cracking the heavy silence. From a nearby hut, a villager stumbled out, eyes wide, hands trembling. "Help… please!" he yelled, pointing toward the wounded.
The cry spread quickly. Doors creaked open, shutters banged, and more villagers spilled into the clearing. Some carried blankets, others grabbed buckets of water, while a few ran toward the injured with crude bandages or sticks to steady the fallen.
Kael watched them, chest tight. They moved with fear, but also with a stubborn, desperate determination.
He should have felt relief. Instead, the only thought that crawled through his mind was how useless he felt. If he hadn't been so stubborn, perhaps he might have progressed by now, might have held the power to save at least one of them. Useless—utterly useless. The archers had done more for the village tonight than the mage who was supposed to lead them.
And he was too tired and angry to even dress the thought in sarcasm.
His eyes drifted to the faces of the fallen, half-buried in snow that kept falling all night. Young, old, men he'd spoken to days before, boys who had no right to be here. Something twisted in his chest, sharper than grief, and anger flared—at the beasts. But mostly at himself. Because he couldn't let go of the past.
The villagers moved cautiously, stepping over blood-soaked snow, their eyes wide as they gathered the fallen. Kael watched from where he knelt, fists still clutched. Hands lifted bodies, dragging them toward rough piles for burial or simply away from the path. The snow that had once seemed pure now glistened crimson, flecked with bits of fur, broken claws, and gore.
A mother's cry cut through the low murmurs. She ran toward a fallen guard, her hands shaking, trembling fingers brushing his chest as if she could feel life there that had already fled. Kael's jaw tightened, a knot twisting in his chest.
Names were whispered, some called out aloud, others just muttered under ragged breaths. One of the older guards murmured his son's name, eyes fixed on the bloodied ground. The sound echoed like a hollow drum in Kael's mind. He counted each name again silently, tracing faces and voices in his memory. One by one, the faces of the lost etched themselves into his mind, refusing to fade.
A mother wailed over her husband, a child whimpered beside her, hands gripping his father's sleeve. Kael's shoulders trembled as he exhaled, but he did not allow himself the release of tears. There was no time, and even if there were, he could not. He clenched his fists, letting the red snow fall through his fingers.
And still the silence pressed down, broken only by groans, muttered prayers, and the quiet sobs of the living. Kael's gaze swept over it all, and a hollow thought crawled through his mind: useless. Useless. Yet he could not look away.
A crunch of boots on snow drew Kael's attention. Captain Rhys emerged from the scattered group of guards, wiping blood from his forearm. He stopped a few paces away, eyes scanning the carnage before settling on Kael.
"Baron," Rhys said, inclining his head once. "The villagers are moving the wounded." He hesitated, eyes flicking toward the edge of the clearing. "Sir Lucas… he's injured. We tried to tend to him, but he refused help."
Kael's eyes flicked to Lucas, still slumped against the palisade. For a brief moment, he recognized himself in the young knight's exhaustion and disbelief—the same hollow ache, the same weight of failure pressing down. They were both trapped in the aftermath, both struggling to breathe through the fog of blood, snow, and grief.
"Rhys," Kael said, his voice low but firm, the words cutting through the cold air. "Give me a moment. I need to… catch my own head before I go back to him."
Rhys inclined his head once, understanding clear in his gaze, and stepped aside. Kael exhaled slowly, letting the tension in his shoulders loosen just slightly. For a heartbeat, he allowed himself to exist in the silence, to let the grief settle without being consumed by it.
Then, with a quiet grimace, he rose to his feet, brushing snow and blood from his hands. It was time to face Lucas, to face the living and the dead alike, to do what the oath demanded even when his body and mind begged for reprieve.
Kael's eyes lingered on the scarred clearing, on the crimson-streaked snow and the bodies slowly being tended. The wind carried the faint, metallic tang of blood, a reminder of what had been lost. His chest tightened, grief pressing down, but he straightened, shoulders set. There would be no rest, not yet—not while the village still clung to life by a thread. He moved toward Lucas, each step heavy, aware of the oath's weight on him. The battle was over, but the night had not yet ended, and neither had the duty it demanded.