"Hold her tighter, Elira," Dante said softly. His voice was steady, but his hands trembled as he adjusted the edge of the burial cloth. "She has to go through this pain."
Elira obeyed, her arms wrapping around Liora from behind. Her body was rigid, too still, too quiet. Her eyes fixed on the freshly dug trench before them, where dozens of shrouded bodies lay lined in perfect symmetry, wrapped in plain white linen. The scent of smoke and pine hung heavy in the air.
The rogue camp had never known silence like this.
No whispers, no laughter, no shifting of blades or armor. Even the forest seemed to hold its breath.
Dante stood at the front, his hands clasped behind him. He had buried soldiers before, warriors who died in battle, friends he'd lost to betrayal but nothing had ever felt as heavy as this. The earth itself seemed to mourn.
