The night had not yet lifted, though the sky above the war-scarred valley bled with the faintest smear of gray. Ash clung to the wind, drifting in long strands that looked like snow torn from the bones of the world. Ryon walked within that stillness, each step heavier than the one before, as if the mud beneath his boots conspired to drag him down and bury him with the others.
The gorge was quieter now. Not silent—never silent—for the moans of the dying still carried through the smoke, mingling with the thin rasp of horses picking their way among the wreckage. Yet compared to the storm that had torn this place apart only hours ago, it felt muted, like the battlefield itself had been drowned beneath a shroud. The cries were muffled. The banners that once snapped with defiance now hung slack, torn, or stained black with blood. Even the air seemed to resist sound, holding grief close against the ribs of the gorge.
