The city did not celebrate victory.
It smoldered.
From the balcony of the eastern tower, Aria watched smoke unravel itself into the morning sky, thin gray ribbons drifting where banners should have been. The bells had not rung. No songs rose from the lower districts. The battle of the previous night had ended with the enemy's retreat, yes, but the cost had been carved too deeply into the stone of the city for joy to find its footing.
Victory, she had learned, was not always loud.
Sometimes it arrived quietly, dragging bodies behind it.
Behind her, the doors creaked open.
"You should be resting."
Damien's voice carried the weight of exhaustion poorly disguised as command. He had changed armor for dark clothes, but the cut on his cheek remained, a thin crimson line like punctuation at the end of a brutal sentence. He looked older this morning. Not weaker, but sharpened, as if something inside him had settled into a colder shape.
