The city hadn't returned to normal. It couldn't. The plaza where Elder Thalos had fallen was cordoned off by a loose circle of guards, but they didn't dare come too close to the ruined center. Broken stone still smoked, and the scent of ozone clung stubbornly to the air.
Eryndor washed blood from his knuckles in what little water trickled through the shattered fountain. The crimson swirled away, vanishing into cracks in the stone. His reflection, fractured and rippling, stared back at him—tired eyes, bruised jaw, and that faint glow in the veins of his arms that hadn't yet faded.
Kael sat a few paces away, leaning against a toppled pillar. His cloak was ragged, and his sword lay at his side, propped on the rubble. He tore a strip from his sleeve and wound it tightly around his ribs with a grimace.
"Every breath feels like someone's stabbing me," Kael muttered. He gave a crooked smile anyway. "But at least I'm still breathing. Can't say the same for Thalos."
Eryndor didn't answer. His silence stretched long enough that Kael finally tilted his head, studying him.
"You're thinking too much," Kael said.
"Not enough," Eryndor replied quietly. His gaze shifted to the body in the distance, covered now by a torn banner someone had thrown over it. "We didn't just kill a man. We killed a pillar. And the city won't forget that."
Kael exhaled slowly. "Then let them remember. Better him gone than us buried."
Eryndor said nothing more. He pressed his hands to his knees and stood, the ache in his muscles grounding him in a way words couldn't.
In the citadel, Veylan's voice echoed through the chamber like a blade scraping stone.
"Thalos' death is an insult," he declared, standing at the head of the obsidian table. His council sat stiff, wary of his simmering rage. "Do you think the city will rally behind a storm-born vagabond and his cursed companion? No. They'll look to us for strength. But first…" His eyes narrowed, sharp and cold. "…we'll remind them who truly holds power here."
The council shifted uneasily, murmurs rising and falling. Veylan ignored them, his hand curling into a fist. The thought of outsiders carving through one of his elders like wolves through an old hound—it seared him. And worse, it would spark questions. About his leadership. His control. His dominance.
"They've won a battle," he said, voice lowering to a dangerous calm. "Now we'll win the war."
Back at the plaza, dawn's first light bled across the ruined stones. The storm had passed, leaving the air sharp and clear.
Kael pushed himself up with a grunt, retrieving his sword. He glanced at Eryndor, who was watching the horizon, eyes unreadable.
"So," Kael said, breaking the silence, "what now? Do we run? Hide? Or stand here until Veylan sends the whole damned city after us?"
Eryndor's lips curved into the faintest trace of a smile. Not amusement—resolve.
"We heal. We prepare," he said simply. His eyes didn't waver from the rising sun. "If Veylan wants war, then he'll have it."
The storm in his veins hummed in quiet agreement.
And somewhere deep within the city, that same storm was already being answered.