The fields of Razi had fallen silent, but silence was never peace. It was the kind of quiet that settled only after chaos, when smoke still lingered in the air and the wind carried the ghosts of shouts and dying breaths. The smell of trampled wheat and scorched leather clung to the land.
The echoes of the chase—shouts, the clash of steel, the barking of orders—had long since faded into the hills. Now, the dry wind hissed through the broken stalks, brushing against the Razi soldiers' armour like a warning. It carried grit into their eyes and the faint scent of burnt oil from broken torches.
Captain Dareth Voln stood at the front, his burn-scarred jaw clenched tight, torchlight cutting sharp lines across his face. Around him, men slumped against spears or sank to their knees, armour streaked with grime and sweat.
Somewhere in the distance, a crow called once and then fell silent.
Voln's boots sank into the soft earth as he surveyed his men.
