The morning sun rose weakly over a land consumed by ruin. Smoke curled from the blackened fields, where broken weapons and shattered armor lay strewn like the bones of ancient beasts. Crows circled above the corpses, their cries harsh and hungry.
Ray stood amidst the carnage, his sword plunged into the earth. The blood had dried on his hands, but not in his heart. Around him, the remnants of the Silver Wolf Legion moved like ghosts—bandaged, limping, yet still clutching their weapons as if the war itself might rise again from the ashes.
General Baru strode through the ruined camp, his armor cracked, his cloak torn and stiff with soot. Yet his eyes—cold, fierce, unyielding—still burned with purpose. "Form ranks," he commanded, voice hoarse but resolute. "Gather the wounded. We march before dusk."
An officer hesitated. "My lord, we've lost nearly half our men. The Smart forces will return within the day. If we stay—"
Baru turned sharply, his glare silencing the man. "If we stay, we die. If we flee, we die slower. But if we march—" His voice lowered, like distant thunder. "—we choose how we die."
A heavy silence followed, broken only by the moan of the wind. Then one soldier struck his fist to his chest. "For the Silver Wolf!" he cried.
Another echoed him. Then another. Within moments, the battered survivors raised their voices as one—hoarse, trembling, but fierce.
"For the Silver Wolf!"
Ray lifted his head, the words searing into his soul. Even in defeat… they still stand.
That night, under a bruised and starless sky, the Silver Wolf Legion began their march northward. Torches flickered like dying stars as they wound through ravines and forests, their path guided by blood and memory. Behind them, Ironblood Fortress smoldered in the darkness, a graveyard of steel and fire.
Far away, in the Smart Empire's war camp, Karlin stood before the emperor's envoy—a tall man clad in gold-trimmed robes, his expression cold and imperious.
"So," the envoy said softly, "fifty thousand dead. Entire battalions reduced to ash. And yet the Silver Wolf general still breathes."
Karlin's jaw tightened. "Baru's army was better prepared than expected. They laid a trap—fire trenches, buried sigils, wind barriers. We lost many."
"Excuses," the envoy interrupted. "The emperor grows impatient. You were promised command because you claimed power beyond mortal sorcery. Prove it—or the next pyre may be yours."
Karlin's eyes flashed, fury and pride warring behind them. "Tell your emperor this," he hissed. "I will burn that wolf and his cubs to cinders. I swear it by the flames that made me."
The envoy's lips curved in a cruel smile. "See that you do. The army of the East marches within a fortnight. You will lead them. Fail again, and no fire will save you."
When the envoy departed, Karlin turned to his tent's mirror of obsidian. His reflection stared back—pale, feverish, eyes gleaming with madness. "Baru," he whispered, "your fire burned my men. Now I'll return it tenfold."
He raised his hand, and flames bloomed in his palm—black, writhing, unnatural. The light of ordinary fire was warm; this flame devoured warmth itself. Its smoke rose in silence, smelling of ash and despair.
"This time," Karlin murmured, "even the gods will not save you."
Three nights later, in the wilderness beyond Ironblood, Ray stood watch beneath a crooked pine. The wind carried the scent of rain and smoke, the whisper of ghosts. He stared at the stars, faint and distant, and thought of Karin—her laughter, her calm eyes, the promise she'd made before vanishing into the chaos of war.
Are you still alive? he wondered. Do you still remember me?
"Ray." The soft voice broke his thoughts. It was Mira, the medic from the western regiment. She approached with a bandaged arm and weary eyes. "You haven't slept in two days."
He gave a faint smile. "Neither have you."
She sat beside him, wrapping her cloak tighter against the chill. For a long while, neither spoke. The silence between them was heavy, but not empty—it was the silence of those who had seen too much.
Finally, Mira whispered, "Do you think we'll make it out?"
Ray's gaze remained fixed on the horizon, where the faintest glow of dawn threatened the dark. "I don't know," he said softly. "But even if we don't… we'll make sure they remember we were here."
She smiled faintly, her voice trembling. "You sound like General Baru."
Ray's hand tightened around his sword. "He taught me something," he said. "That men don't live for glory. We live to keep the fire burning, even when the world goes dark."
The wind sighed through the trees. Far to the south, lightning flashed—silent, distant, foreboding.
Mira looked toward it uneasily. "A storm?"
Ray shook his head slowly. "No," he murmured. "That's no storm. That's war."
And as dawn crept over the land, the ashes stirred once more—carried by the wind toward the north, toward the next battlefield waiting to be born.