The morning came late to the Southern Plains.
A haze of pale sunlight struggled through the smoke that still drifted across the battlefield, washing the ruins in a sickly gold. The wind had changed; it no longer carried the smell of death, only the bitter tang of burnt metal and cold ash.
Ryon awoke to the weight of silence.
He lay in the tent the healers had raised over what was once the command hill, a structure of torn canvas and stitched light. His body felt heavy — every limb a memory of pain. The world swayed when he tried to move. His head throbbed with the dull ache of overdrawn magic. He had been unconscious for nearly a day, though it felt longer — as if the battle still echoed somewhere in the marrow of his bones.
When he opened his eyes, Kaela was there.
She sat beside him, elbows resting on her knees, her healer's robes stained and frayed. Her hair was tied back in a loose knot, strands of gold tangled against her neck. She had not slept.
