Chapter 89: The Shape of the Dawn
The world outside the Vault door had transformed from a battlefield into a grim, bustling camp. The dead of both sides had been laid in separate, respectful rows, covered with grey and white tarps. The wounded—Silverfang, Southern, and surrendered Northern hunters alike—were being treated in a makeshift infirmary where Southern healers worked with an eerie, silent efficiency alongside Silverfang medicine-wolves. The air still smelled of blood and ozone, but now it was undercut by the scent of medicinal herbs and the tang of hot metal from field kitchens being set up.
Lyra walked beside Kael, their hands still linked. Stepping from the Vault's timeless perfection into this raw, painful reality was a shock. She saw the cost etched on every face—the exhaustion of her warriors, the hollow-eyed shock of the prisoners, the grim satisfaction on Ronan's blood-smeared features as he oversaw it all. Her heart ached. They had won, but they had paid.
