The fires dimmed, but the smoke refused to lift. The field of Wrath's fury was now a wasteland of corpses and broken steel. Survivors stumbled among the ashes, their voices hushed, their eyes hollow. Victory tasted like ash.
Cyrus sat slumped against a shattered banner pole, one hand pressed to his bleeding side. Every breath was jagged, but he forced himself upright whenever the survivors passed. They needed to see him standing, not broken. He had no crown, no title, yet they looked to him all the same.
Hope knelt a short distance away, her light faint, flickering. She whispered prayers for the wounded, though each word seemed to drain her further. Love moved among them as well, her touch still soothing, yet each gaze she met was sharp with doubt. Whispers followed her — traitor, weak, dangerous. She did not answer them.
By dusk, the camp was a fragile thing: a circle of exhausted men and women clinging to silence. Yet silence soon turned to blame. Some spat at Love's feet, demanding she be cast out. Others muttered that Cyrus' recklessness had brought Wrath upon them at all. Even Hope, trembling with exhaustion, struggled to speak in his defense.
Cyrus rose despite the pain, his voice cutting through the discord. "We survived because we stood together. Fracture now, and Wrath has already won."
His words steadied them, but only barely. Doubt still gnawed at the edges, hunger for answers greater than his strength could provide. And into that hunger, a new voice slipped like silk.
"Well spoken… for an exile."
The camp turned. From the shadows at the edge of the firelight, a figure approached draped in silver and crimson, his smile sharp as a blade. Behind him marched not berserkers, but soldiers — disciplined, armored, their eyes gleaming with purpose.
"I am Ambition," he declared, his voice carrying like a promise. "I offer not survival, but greatness. To rise from these ashes, to make this suffering mean something more."
The weary survivors leaned forward, caught by his words. Even the fire seemed to burn brighter in his presence.
And Cyrus, bloodied and unbowed, tightened his grip on his blade.