Snow clung to the edges of Leon's cloak as the wind met him again, this time on the open path descending from the monastery ridge. The sky above was bruised with the hue of a world still waking from memory, pale light stretching across the valley. Birds had returned. The silence of the mountain was broken only by the steady crunch of footfalls behind him.
Elena followed, her blade sheathed but her guard never dropped. Though they had left the chamber, neither of them had truly left what had transpired. The light might have faded, but the weight of the Eye's mark still pulsed faintly on Leon's palm.
At the ridge's edge, they paused.
Below, like a scar carved into the valley, lay the remnants of the battle site. Burnt earth. Fallen banners. Tents torn as if by claws or storm. And scattered amongst the ruin—bodies. Some theirs. Some not.
Leon knelt.
A soldier's hand stuck from beneath a shattered pillar. He brushed snow from the face beneath it.
Joran.
