Morning revealed the truth.
Victory had a cost.
Bodies lay frozen where they fell.
Draven and Valenreach alike.
Locked in final struggles.
Hands still gripping blades.
Faces pale as stone.
Healers moved quietly.
Bandages stained red.
Prayers whispered.
Screams muffled by snow.
Aren walked the walls.
Counting losses.
Memorizing names.
He forced himself to look.
A leader must.
Caelis joined him.
"Two hundred dead," he said.
"Another hundred wounded."
Aren closed his eyes briefly.
"Too many."
"Fewer than if we'd broken," Caelis replied.
Scouts brought news.
Draven retreated to the high ridge.
Regrouping.
Preparing again.
They never stopped.
Lysa stitched Aren's arm.
"You're slow," she muttered.
"Because I'm alive," he replied.
She snorted.
Tom stood nearby.
Face pale.
Hands shaking.
"I carried bodies," he whispered.
"You carried duty," Aren said.
Tom nodded.
Stronger.
Supplies dwindled further.
Food rationed.
Firewood scarce.
Armor cracked.
Hope strained.
Aren called a council.
"We can't wait," he said.
"They'll starve us."
"Then we strike first," Caelis replied.
"Into mountains?" an officer asked.
"Into hell," Aren said.
Plans formed.
Raids.
Ambushes.
Night strikes.
Small blades against large armies.
Before dusk, Aren wrote to Rowan.
Frostgate holds.
Winter favors the bold.
Trust me.
He sealed it with blood.
Literally.
That night, snow fell again.
Soft.
Endless.
Unforgiving.
Aren stood alone on the wall.
Blood dried on his sleeve.
Ice in his beard.
Fire in his chest.
War had carved him.
But it had not broken him.