Dawn broke gray and cold. The air carried no birdsong, only the shallow breaths of the weary who had survived the night. Around the smoldering ashes of their abandoned camp, the remnants of Cyrus' following sat in silence — hollow shells of warriors who once dreamed of victory.
Cyrus watched them from the edge of the hill. Every face was marked by grief. Every gaze avoided his, as though ashamed to be seen surviving. Ambition had stolen more than their comrades — he had stolen their belief.
For a long time, Cyrus said nothing. The weight of failure pressed on his shoulders, threatening to crush what remained of his resolve. But then his eyes caught the smallest sight: a boy, no older than fifteen, clutching a broken spear, hands trembling yet refusing to let go.
Something stirred in him.
He stepped forward, his voice hoarse but steady. "I will not lie to you. We were broken. We were betrayed. And I failed you."
The words drew their gazes at last, weary eyes lifting toward him. He bared his wounds openly, not as a commander, but as one of them.
"But Ambition did not win because he was stronger. He won because he made you forget who you are. He fed you lies of glory, of power. But glory fades. Power corrupts. Only one thing endures—" He struck his fist to his chest, blood seeping fresh from old wounds. "The fire we choose to carry."
Murmurs rippled through the survivors, faint but growing. Hope stepped beside him, her glow faint yet visible against the gray morning.
"You feel nothing but ashes inside," Cyrus continued. "So do I. But ashes are proof a flame once lived. And from ashes, flames can rise again."
He extended his hand, not commanding, but inviting. One by one, hands lifted to meet his — scarred, trembling, yet willing.
For the first time since defeat, a fragile warmth spread among them. It was not triumph. It was not certainty. But it was enough.
The first spark had been lit.