The night bled into silence, broken only by the staggered breaths of the few who fled with him. The battlefield — once alive with hope's fragile glow — now lay behind them, swallowed by Ambition's banners and the echoes of his triumph.
Cyrus limped through the shadows, every step dragging fire through his wounds. The torch in his hand guttered, its light weak, like the hearts of those who remained. Around him, the remnants of his camp marched hollow-eyed, their faces pale with exhaustion and betrayal.
Hope clung close, her glow dim but steady. She whispered words meant to soothe — but even her voice trembled, as though she feared it too would break.
"Cyrus… you can't carry this alone."
He gave no answer. His silence was heavier than steel.
At last, when they could march no further, the survivors collapsed upon a barren hillside. No fire was lit. No songs were sung. The night was thick with loss, every gaze haunted by the absence of those who had chosen Ambition.
Cyrus stood apart from them, staring into the darkness. His blood had dried upon his armor, a crusted weight pressing against his chest. He clenched his fists until the scars of his palms split open anew.
"They were mine to protect," he whispered, voice raw and jagged. "And I failed them."
Hope approached, placing her trembling hand against his arm. For a moment, he nearly let himself lean into it — nearly surrendered to her warmth. But he pulled away, turning his face to the wind.
If sorrow had a sound, it was the ragged breath of his people as they slept uneasily, mourning comrades still alive yet already lost. If despair had a taste, it was the blood in his mouth when he bit back his rage.
Cyrus raised his eyes to the black horizon, where no stars pierced the gloom. For the first time since exile, he felt utterly alone — a leader without faith, a man without a flame.
And yet, within that emptiness, the silence screamed one truth:
If he could not rise, then everything would remain ashes.