The smell of scorched soil still clung to the air. But the battlefield had quieted.
The ants were dead or scattered, the Queen slain, the swarm broken.
What remained was the aftermath.
The wounded stretched in lines like fallen dominoes—dozens upon dozens of them. Some groaning. Some silent. Some barely hanging on.
And Darin walked among them.
He didn't wear armor. He didn't ride a warhorse or shout orders like a conquering general. But as he passed, people sat up. Heads turned. Eyes followed.
Each time he knelt, placed his hand upon a broken limb or scorched chest, a warm pulse of power spilled from his touch, subtle but undeniable. Torn skin mended. Burned flesh cooled. Bones realigned. Pain ebbed.
It was slow. It was exhausting. But it worked.
And the people saw.
The cultists, of course, were first.
A bald one sobbed openly, clutching at his half-healed ribs as Darin stood up from his side.
