The morning after the storm broke gray and raw. Smoke still hung in the air, low and heavy, clinging to the ruins like a shroud. Cain sat on the edge of a broken wall, his sword buried point-first in the mud before him. The metallic scent of blood still lingered, but he had stopped noticing it hours ago. He was numb, staring at the sky that refused to brighten.
The world around him was quiet—too quiet. Every gust of wind carried the echo of the night before: screams, collapsing stone, the sound of divine energy tearing through flesh and steel alike. It wasn't war anymore. It was a purge.
"Still breathing, huh?" a voice rasped from behind.
Cain turned his head slightly. Eira limped toward him, her armor in pieces, her left arm bound tightly with what looked like the remains of a flag. Her once-silver hair was soaked dark red at the tips, plastered to her neck.
He grunted, pulling his blade from the dirt. "Barely."
