The graves had been filled. The earth was patted down, smoothed out by trembling hands and tired arms. The last prayer had been whispered. The final tear had been shed—for now. Morning light filtered through the trees, golden and soft, as if nature itself was offering a quiet apology for what had transpired beneath its canopy.
And then came the silence.
Not the silence of death, but of exhaustion. Of spent breath and weary souls trying to summon the strength for what came next.
Because it wasn't over.
The wounded needed tending. The dead had been honoured, but the living were now the concern. Commander Valerie stood among her knights, eyes scanning the battlefield turned graveyard. Her armour bore gashes and blood, none of it hers. Her braid was torn at the ends, and her lips were dry from shouting commands through the long and brutal night. Still, she stood tall, unshaken by the weight on her shoulders.
She turned to the group. "We move."
