Time after battle was always the quietest.
It wasn't a peaceful period.
Just… emptied, like a blur to those who partook in its carnage.
The silence that followed violence felt like a debt, a pause before the next scream. Bright Morgan stood over Larkin's collapsed body—what remained of it—feeling that silence press against his skull like a vice. Ink still pooled around the corpse, glistening under the trembling lantern flames scattered through Grim Hollow. The wind carried the scent of dust, scorched grain, and death.
His breath rose white in the cold air.
Larkin did not move.
He wouldn't ever again.
But something else did.
A faint glow pulsed beneath the corpse's ribs.
Bright stiffened. He stepped closer and nudged the body with the tip of his fused blade. The corpse shifted, releasing a soft crunch of congealed ink and bone. And there—beneath the ribcage—rested three small crystalline masses.
Ability cores.
