Counting the Cost
Dawn came gray and cold over Thornhaven, as if the sun itself hesitated to witness what the night had left behind.
Lioran stood on what remained of the southern wall, looking out over a battlefield that stretched for half a mile in every direction. The crusade's retreat had left a carpet of bodies—crusaders in their silver armor, northern soldiers in their frost-touched mail, Thornhaven's defenders in their patchwork gear. Carrion birds already circled overhead, their cries the only sound besides the moaning of wounded who hadn't yet been found.
Four hundred and thirty-seven.
That was the number Torven had given him an hour ago. Four hundred and thirty-seven of Thornhaven's people dead. Another two hundred wounded, many of whom wouldn't survive the week. From a population that had barely reached three thousand.
"You can't stand here all day," Kaelen said, approaching with his arm in a sling. The knight's face was haggard, his armor still stained with blood that wasn't all his own.
"The council needs you. There are decisions that can't wait."
"Decisions," Lioran repeated, his voice hollow. "What decisions? How to dig enough graves? Which families to tell first that their sons and daughters died for a village that might not survive another month?"
"Yes," Kaelen said bluntly. "Exactly those decisions. Someone has to make them, and right now, that someone is you."
The ember pulsed weakly in Lioran's chest. It had been quiet since the battle ended, as if the violence had finally satiated some deep hunger. But he could feel it stirring again, restless, wanting more. The combined working with Evelina had opened something inside him—a channel that was proving difficult to close.
"Where's the Queen?" Lioran asked.
"In the courtyard, organizing the triage. She's turned the entire northern section into a field hospital." Kaelen's expression softened slightly. "She hasn't slept. Won't leave until every northern soldier is accounted for."
Lioran nodded and turned from the wall. As they descended, he saw the full extent of Thornhaven's devastation. The eastern gate was completely destroyed, reduced to charred timber and twisted metal. Two entire sections of wall had collapsed. The marketplace that had been the village's heart was a crater of melted stone where his fire and the priests' divine magic had collided.
Homes that families had built over months were gone. The school where children had learned to read was a pile of ash. The chapel that Sister Elara had worked so hard to rebuild stood with its roof caved in, the bell tower tilted at a dangerous angle.
This was victory. This was what success looked like.
They found Evelina in the courtyard, exactly as Kaelen had said. She'd removed her armor, working in a simple tunic now stained with blood and ash. Her white hair was pulled back in a practical braid, and dark circles shadowed her eyes. But her movements were precise and efficient as she directed Frost Guard healers and Thornhaven's own physicians in their grim work.
She looked up as Lioran approached, and something in her expression cracked. For just a moment, the Ice Queen's composure failed, and he saw the exhaustion and horror beneath.
"Sixty-three of my soldiers are dead," she said without preamble. "Another forty will never fight again. I brought five hundred of the Frost Kingdom's best warriors south to help you, and I'm taking home four hundred broken ones."
"Evelina—"
"Don't." She held up a hand, then seemed to catch herself. When she spoke again, her voice was quieter. "I'm sorry. That was unfair. They died protecting something they believed in. That matters." She looked around at the ruined settlement. "But the cost, Lioran. Look at the cost."
A commotion at the northern gate interrupted them. Guards were shouting, and Lioran felt his hand instinctively move toward where his sword should be. But it was gone, lost somewhere in yesterday's chaos.
Then he saw them.
Refugees. Dozens of them, maybe a hundred, streaming through the broken gate with everything they owned piled into carts or strapped to their backs. Men, women, children—all with the same haunted, desperate look he'd seen too many times before.
"What's this?" Kaelen demanded as Renn appeared, leading the group. The young man looked older somehow, his face harder, his movements carrying a new weight.
"Word spread," Renn said. "They're coming from villages the crusade passed through on their retreat. Crane's forces are burning everything in their path now—anyone who didn't support them actively is being labeled a collaborator with heresy." He gestured to the refugees. "These people have nowhere else to go. They heard Thornhaven survived, so they came."
"We can't take more people," Torven said, appearing from the command post. "We barely have food for those already here. Medical supplies are nearly exhausted. And we need every able-bodied person for rebuilding, not feeding more mouths."
"Turn them away then?" Mira's voice cut through the discussion. She emerged from the crowd of refugees, supporting an elderly woman whose leg was badly burned.
"Tell them to go die somewhere else because it's inconvenient for us?"
"That's not what I—" Torven began.
"That's exactly what you said," Mira interrupted, her eyes flashing with rare anger.
"These people came here because we promised something different. Because we said there was an alternative to the Church's brutality and the lords' indifference. Were those just words?"
The ember flared in Lioran's chest, responding to the tension. He felt fire dancing across his fingertips and forced it down with effort. Since absorbing the combined power yesterday, control had become harder. The line between his will and the flame's was blurring.
"We take them," he said quietly.
"My lord—" Torven protested.
"We take them," Lioran repeated, louder. "Mira's right. If we turn away refugees now, after everything we've said we stand for, then Crane wins. We become exactly what he accused us of being—liars who speak pretty words but act like every other power-hungry lord."
"Then how do we feed them?" Kaelen asked. Not challenging, just practical.
"The same way we've survived everything else," Lioran said. "We adapt. We trade. We build." He turned to Evelina. "The caravans you promised—how soon can they arrive?"
"Two weeks, perhaps three," she said, understanding immediately. "But that's assuming the northern passes stay clear and the Merchant Confederacy doesn't interfere." She paused. "There's another problem. My council is already questioning whether I should have sent troops south at all. The casualties will make that worse. I may not be able to send more supplies without risking my throne."
"Your throne?" Duke Aldren appeared, his armor battle-scarred but his bearing still proud. "Your Majesty, with respect, all our thrones are at risk now. The crusade may have retreated, but King Valorian just sent me a message via courier." He held up a sealed letter. "Every kingdom that supported Thornhaven is being labeled heretical by the High Conclave. Trade sanctions. Political isolation. And threats of a second crusade—this time with five times the forces."
Silence fell over the group.
"Five times," Serra whispered. "Fifty thousand soldiers."
"We can't survive that," Torven said flatly. "Not with our current resources. Not with a population that's half dead or wounded. Not with walls that are half rubble."
The ember roared in Lioran's chest, offering its solution: Burn them first. Strike before they organize. Unleash everything and reduce their kingdoms to ash before they can march.
He felt fire racing through his veins, felt his eyes beginning to glow. The refugees nearest him stepped back in fear.
Then Evelina's hand found his, ice-cold against his burning skin. The Soul Binding they'd forged during the battle activated, her presence flowing into him like cool water on scorched earth. The ember's fury dampened, not extinguished but controlled.
"We survive," she said, her voice carrying absolute certainty, "because we don't face this alone. Thornhaven isn't an isolated village anymore. It's the center of something larger—an alliance of people who are tired of being told their only choices are obedience or death."
She turned to address everyone—council members, refugees, soldiers, all of them. "The Church wants to make this about heresy and orthodoxy. Let them. We'll make it about something simpler: whether people have the right to choose how they're governed. Whether power serves the people or the people serve power. That's a question every kingdom, every village, every person on this continent has to answer."
"Pretty words," Aldren said, but there was approval in his voice. "But words won't stop fifty thousand swords."
"No," Evelina agreed. "But they might stop those fifty thousand from drawing their swords in the first place. Not all of them will want to die for the Church's pride. We just need to give them an alternative."
Mira stepped forward, the elderly refugee still leaning on her. "Then we start now. These people came here with nothing. We help them rebuild their lives. We show them that what we promised isn't just words. And when the next crusade comes—because it will come—they'll fight to defend it because it's theirs, not because we commanded them to."
Lioran looked at the faces around him: Evelina exhausted but determined, Kaelen wounded but standing, Renn aged beyond his years, his mother finding strength he'd never known she possessed. Beyond them, refugees who'd lost everything but hadn't lost hope. Soldiers who'd bled together regardless of which kingdom they'd been born in.
Maybe Evelina was right. Maybe this was bigger than Thornhaven now.
"Then we have work to do," he said. "Torven, organize work crews for rebuilding.
Kaelen, assess which defenses can be salvaged. Serra, coordinate with the northern healers—I want every wounded soldier, ours or theirs, treated equally." He turned to Renn. "Take a team and search the battlefield. Any crusaders who survived and want to surrender get the same choice as before: fight with us or leave in peace."
"And the dead?" someone asked quietly.
Lioran looked out at the battlefield, at the hundreds of bodies still lying where they'd fallen. "We bury them with honor. All of them. Crusaders too. Whatever they believed, whatever choices they made, they're done suffering. That's the difference between us and Crane—we remember that even enemies are still human."
As the council dispersed to their tasks, Evelina remained beside him. "That speech about burying enemies with honor—did you mean it, or were you just saying what people needed to hear?"
Lioran thought about the original Dragon Lord, about burning armies and leaving corpses to rot as warnings. About the path he'd been walking toward before the Frost Kingdoms had taught him another way.
"Both," he admitted. "I meant it. But I also know it's what distinguishes us. We have to be better than they are, or there's no point to any of this."
"Being better is exhausting," Evelina said, leaning against him slightly. Through their Soul Binding, he felt her weariness, her doubt, her determination. "Sometimes I wonder if it's worth it."
"So do I," Lioran said. "Every day."
They stood together, watching Thornhaven slowly come back to life as people began the hard work of rebuilding. The sun finally broke through the clouds, casting weak light across the scarred earth.
Four hundred and thirty-seven dead. Two hundred more dying. A second crusade gathering. Fifty thousand swords waiting to march north.
But also: survivors finding strength. Allies standing together. Hope refusing to die even when every rational calculation said it should.
The ember pulsed in Lioran's chest, patient now, waiting.
The war wasn't over. It had barely begun.
But for today, they'd survived. And sometimes, survival was victory enough.