The wind died.
The battlefield, once howling with fire and screams, turned still. Even the falling snow hesitated, caught in a suspended breath.
Now Aldric had stepped down.
The red-gold plates of his armor shimmered, carved with sigils so old they pulsed with language older than the kingdom.
His black cloak flared behind him, untouched by the snow, writhing like a banner of flame. His eyes—cold and burning—swept over the ruined field once more.
Over Zerak's corpse. Over Kael, wounded but standing.
And then they landed on Lan again. He didn't reply him.
A golden aura erupted from his body. The snow evaporated in a wide ring around him, revealing the cracked earth beneath. Even the embers of burning wagons dimmed in his presence.
Lan exhaled, breath misting. His ribs ached. His arm hung lower than it should. Blood had dried at the corner of his lips, but more was waiting.
