The question lingered in the air for several seconds. Heavy. Motionless.
Rowan was breathing with difficulty now. Each pull of air came short and irregular, as if his own body was beginning to fail after everything it had endured that day.
The dagger was still buried in his leg, and the pain pulsed in violent waves that climbed through his entire body.
Even so, he didn't answer.
His eyes were slightly unfocused, fixed on some distant point beyond her.
It wasn't defiance.
It was exhaustion.
The woman noticed.
And that only irritated her more.
She twisted the blade.
The torn flesh reacted immediately, and Rowan let out a rough sound that escaped before he could stop it.
— I hate when someone loses interest in their own story — she said, observing his reaction with clinical attention.
Silence again.
Rowan took a deep breath.
Or tried to.
His chest barely expanded under the invisible weight of pain and fatigue.
When he spoke, his voice came out broken.
— It's… over.
There was no strength in that sentence.
No hope.
It was simply what remained of someone who had seen the limit of his own world.
She watched him for a moment.
Then let out a small dry laugh.
— No.
Then she pulled the dagger out of the wound.
Blood began to flow again with greater force.
She stood up once more, slowly wiping the blade on her glove while observing the men around them.
The survivors were scattered, rigid, unable to decide whether they should look or turn their eyes away.
The presence of the dragon behind her kept everyone exactly where they were — like animals that knew precisely what would happen if they ran.
Garron stood among them.
Fists clenched.
Jaw tight.
She walked a few slow steps, as if thinking.
Then she stopped.
— Curious.
Her eyes returned to Rowan.
— Because the man who was down here… — she said, vaguely pointing toward the ground — didn't look like someone who would accept the end so easily.
She approached again.
Crouched in front of him once more.
— That man was thinking.
She pointed the dagger toward his head.
— Calculating.
Then she lightly pressed the tip of the blade against his chest.
— Observing.
She tilted her head.
— He made me work.
The smile that appeared now was thin.
— And I liked that.
Silence dominated the field again.
That was when Garron spoke.
— It was me.
His voice wasn't loud.
But it was firm.
All eyes turned toward him.
Garron took a step forward.
— The formations were my idea.
The woman remained still for a moment.
Then slowly turned her head toward him.
She observed Garron from head to toe.
Then her eyes returned to Rowan.
Then back to Garron again.
A small smile appeared.
— No.
She slowly shook her head.
— Captains usually lie better than that.
The smile disappeared.
She stood up completely now.
The next gesture was simple.
A small movement of her hand.
But Marrick's soldiers understood immediately.
Men began moving around the field.
Swords rising.
Shields adjusting.
The survivors realized too late.
— Kill them all.
The order came out calm.
Almost casual.
Panic began to rise among the few remaining men.
Some stepped back.
Others tightened their grip on their weapons without the courage to use them.
She raised one finger.
— Except him.
She pointed directly at Garron.
Her eyes locked onto him.
— You will live.
Garron didn't respond.
She continued.
— Someone has to go back.
The smile slowly returned.
— Someone has to tell Lord Edric what happened here today.
Marrick's soldiers began to advance.
The field exploded again with screams and steel.
She then pointed at Rowan.
— Not this one either.
Two soldiers immediately approached and grabbed Rowan by the arms.
He barely managed to react as they pulled him from the ground.
His injured leg almost collapsed completely under the weight.
The woman watched as they lifted him.
— Take him.
She slid the dagger back into her boot.
— I want him alive.
The soldiers began dragging him away.
She was already walking back toward the dragon.
— Put him in my tent.
Rowan could barely keep his eyes open now.
Behind him, the field was transforming once again into a massacre.
Screams.
Swords.
Men begging.
The woman climbed onto the dragon's saddle with the same ease as before.
She ran a hand along the creature's neck.
— Let's go.
Her voice was almost light.
— You're still hungry.
The dragon opened its wings.
The wind lifted dust, ash, and the heavy smell of death.
And while Rowan was dragged away from the devastated field…
The colossal creature launched itself back into the sky.
The field was still alive with the echoes of the massacre when Garron dropped to his knees.
He hadn't been knocked down.
He had simply stopped.
The weight of what was happening around him seemed to have finally pierced the armor he had worn throughout the entire battle.
The smell of blood was thick in the air now.
Iron and smoke.
Earth churned by boots and bodies.
Some men were still screaming in the distance, but the sounds were already more scattered.
Weaker.
The battle was over.
What remained was only execution.
Marrick's soldiers moved among the survivors like calm hunters finishing a job.
Swords rose and fell with brutal efficiency.
No anger.
No haste.
Garron didn't try to stop them.
He knew that any movement from him would change only one thing:
The dragon.
And then no one would leave that place.
The sound of beating wings cut across the field.
He raised his head.
The dragon was already climbing back into the sky, enormous against the smoke still rising from the destroyed hill.
For a moment, the silhouette of the rider was visible against the dull light of the late afternoon.
Then it disappeared among the low clouds.
Garron clenched his teeth.
Rowan.
The image of the young man being dragged away by soldiers was still fresh in his mind.
The bleeding leg.
The body barely reacting.
And he had spoken.
— It was him.
The sentence still weighed in his throat like something impossible to swallow.
He knew the woman had already suspected.
He knew she probably would have reached Rowan anyway.
But that didn't make the feeling any better.
A soldier from Marrick approached him.
— Get up.
The voice wasn't aggressive.
Just direct.
Garron didn't respond immediately.
He looked one more time across the field.
Men who had marched with him that morning were now scattered across the ground, motionless.
Others were still being pushed to their knees before the final blow.
The hill where Rowan had tried to command the resistance was black with ash.
All of that…
For a single dragon.
He finally stood.
The soldier watched him for a moment, making sure he would truly obey.
— You're leaving.
Garron frowned.
— Her orders.
The soldier vaguely pointed toward the sky.
— She said someone had to go back.
Garron remained silent.
He knew exactly why.
To tell the story.
To spread the fear.
So that everyone would know that resisting a dragon ended like this.
The soldier shoved him lightly in the opposite direction of the field.
— Walk.
Garron began to move.
Each step felt heavier than it should.
Not because of the battle — his body still worked well enough — but because of the awareness that he was leaving something behind.
Or someone.
He didn't look back again.
But the image of Rowan being taken away remained there.
Impossible to ignore.
Rowan awoke slowly.
It wasn't a sudden return to consciousness.
It was more like rising from dark water.
First came the pain.
A deep, throbbing pain in his leg, spreading through his hip and climbing along his ribs.
Each breath made something inside him protest.
Then came the smell.
Leather.
Smoke.
Dried blood.
He opened his eyes.
The ceiling above him was dark canvas, illuminated by a faint light filtering through the fabric.
For a few seconds, his mind took time to understand what that meant.
A tent.
He tried to move.
Mistake.
Pain tore through his leg like a heated blade and made a low, involuntary sound escape him.
Then memory returned.
The field.
The dragon.
The fire.
The men.
The woman.
He turned his head slightly.
He was lying on something improvised — perhaps a campaign bed.
The injured leg was wrapped in cloth, but the fabric was already dark with dried blood.
There were no chains.
No ropes.
Only weakness strong enough to make any escape impossible.
Outside the tent, distant sounds of military activity reached him, muffled.
Voices.
Footsteps.
Metal being moved.
And farther away…
A deep rumble.
The sound of something colossal breathing.
Rowan closed his eyes for a moment.
The dragon.
Still there.
The exhaustion was crushing now.
His body wanted to sink back into the void it had come from.
But then the sound of footsteps approaching the entrance of the tent made him open his eyes again.
The shadow appeared first.
Then the canvas was pushed aside.
She entered.
The same woman from the battlefield.
Now, without the wind and fire of war around them, Rowan could observe her more clearly.
There were stains of dried blood on her boots and on the lower part of her cloak.
It didn't seem to be hers.
She closed the entrance of the tent behind her with a casual gesture.
For a few seconds, she simply watched him.
Like someone examining a rare object found in the middle of a field of ruins.
— So you woke up.
Her voice was calm.
Rowan didn't answer.
He simply stared at her.
She walked a few steps inside the tent, slowly removing her gloves.
The leather was marked with soot and blood.
— My dragon was hungry — she said, almost casually.
— After a battle like that, it always is.
She tossed the gloves onto an improvised table.
Her eyes returned to Rowan.
— But I wanted to make sure of one thing before continuing the journey.
She approached the bed where he lay.
Stopped beside it.
Her eyes dropped to the injured leg.
Then returned to his face.
— I wanted to see the man who almost made me make a mistake today.
Silence.
Rowan felt the weight of that word.
Almost.
She tilted her head slightly.
— Soldiers usually die too quickly to think about formations.
Her eyes were sharper now.
— You didn't.
She crossed her arms.
— So let's try again.
A small pause.
— Why did you change those formations?
The tent fell silent.
Outside, the dragon released a deep breath that made the canvas walls tremble slightly.
Her eyes remained locked on Rowan's.
Waiting.