Smoke drifted over the battlefield like a funeral veil.
The River Torin ran slow and dark, clogged with broken shields and bodies. Ravens circled above, waiting.
Aren walked among the dead.
Some were boys.
Some old men.
All were silent.
Soldiers searched for friends.
For brothers.
For sons.
Many found only armor.
Or blood.
Or nothing.
Rowan ordered pyres built.
Hundreds of them.
Flames rose into the gray sky.
The smell of burning flesh filled the air.
No one spoke.
Lysa joined Aren near the riverbank.
"You fought well," she said.
"So did they," he replied.
She nodded.
War did not care.
Messengers arrived by noon.
Draven had retreated ten miles.
Regrouping.
Rearming.
Preparing.
"They'll return," Caelis said.
"Soon."
That evening, commanders gathered.
Maps spread.
Candles lit.
Voices low.
"We're short on food," one said.
"Short on arrows," another added.
"Short on time," Rowan finished.
Silence followed.
Aren studied the terrain.
Hills to the west.
Marsh to the south.
Forest to the east.
An idea formed.
"Force them into the marsh," he said.
"They'll slow. Sink. Break formation."
Caelis considered.
"Risky."
"All war is," Aren replied.
Rowan nodded.
"Prepare it."
Later, Aren sat alone.
Cleaning his sword.
Blood flaked off like rust.
He remembered the knight he had almost lost to.
How close death had been.
Again.
Lysa sat beside him.
"You're becoming someone," she said.
"Who?" he asked.
She hesitated.
"Someone powerful."
He did not answer.
That night, rain fell.
Soft.
Relentless.
Washing blood into the earth.
As if trying to erase what had happened.
It failed.
Across the plain, Draven's fires burned.
Two armies watched each other through darkness.
Both knowing:
The next battle would decide everything.