Claire stepped forward, her boots pressing into the churned ash and trampled mud that still reeked of mana burn and blood. The wind was colder here, not from temperature but from memory, from the absence of him. The remnants of the army stood scattered like broken teeth—some seated, some still staring at the horizon, some bandaged, most silent.
General Denish sat beneath a scorched war banner, his arm freshly wrapped and blood seeping through the gauze. The healers around him moved with purpose, eyes sunken, lips drawn tight. The war had not ended. It had paused. And everyone feared what would come next.
"Where is the prince?" Denish asked, the question weighted, not by urgency but by disbelief. His voice was low, hoarse, but it cut the air like flint.
Claire didn't answer at first.
She only looked out toward the dark swell of smoke. A towering mushroom cloud of ash and broken sky still reached upward like the memory of a scream that wouldn't end. That was where she'd left him.
