The situation crushed down on the Chief from both sides.
On one side stood responsibility–trust built over years, lives bound by oath and survival, belief that a leader never abandons those who walk behind him. On the other stood his daughter, found only moments ago, blood of his blood, the last living remnant of a family he had already lost once.
There was no path without loss.
The fog thickened without moving. Sound dulled, as if the world had leaned closer, waiting. Azriel's gaze fixed ahead, then drifted–not to the formation, not to the enemy, but to the space between his feet.
He did not look at Aizrel yet.
His jaw tightened, then eased. Breath filled his chest and stayed there a moment too long before he let it out, slow and controlled. The weight on his shoulders did not lift–but it settled, becoming something he could stand beneath.
