The storm had passed, but the world hadn't yet recovered from it.
The horizon was still stained red with embers. The battlefield stretched endlessly, a plain of ruin and smoke where even the stars seemed reluctant to look down. Cain walked through it, his coat torn, his boots sinking slightly in the ash. Each step crunched over the charred remains of armor and bone, echoes of lives erased by fire and faith.
He had been walking for hours, maybe days. The concept of time had gone with the battle's end. His mind, however, was anything but still.
The smell of burnt flesh clung to him. He could wash for a week and it would still remain — a brand etched into his skin, his memory, his soul.
He had done this.
And the part that disturbed him most was how calm he felt about it.
