The return march carried a different weight than the advance. Victory tasted of ash and ozone, tempered by the empty spaces where fallen wardens once stood. Twenty-seven now moved through the retreating mists, the Abyssal Spire's peak dull and lifeless behind them. Liam walked with Ti's hand in his, their bond a steady golden hum that eased the Devil King's lingering aftershocks. **Veil Piercer** still flickered at the edges of his vision, but its warnings had softened—no immediate red threads among the survivors.
Yet the betrayal lingered like a splinter.
They reached the forward camp ruins by late afternoon, the sun finally piercing the void-tainted sky in earnest. Vael immediately set scouts to secure the perimeter while Grom organized triage. Ti moved among the wounded, her light weaving healing patterns that left faint luminescent scars—badges of survival. Liam reviewed the living map with the senior elf, the holographic bark now showing new clear paths back toward the grove.
