The dawn stretched pale across a world that no longer breathed.
Aria woke again to silence. Not the silence of sleep, but the silence of consequence. Her body ached as though she had been broken on a wheel; every vein still smoldered, faintly glowing beneath her skin. The fire had not left. It had simply folded itself inward, crouched low inside her ribs, patient, waiting.
The clearing around her looked like the bones of a battlefield. Trees bent inward, blackened and bowed as if in prayer. The earth cracked where roots had torn through. Smoke coiled upward in frail ribbons, unable to decide whether it wished to linger or fade.
And everywhere lay the bodies.
Men, women, wolves, frozen mid-scream, mid-prayer, mid-defiance. Some were piles of ash collapsed into human shapes, others still recognizable but blackened beyond touch. Between them, the survivors stirred, soot-smeared, eyes wide, throats raw from either worship or curses.
They had not fled.
They had stayed.
