Night fell like a curtain over the Burning Plains, heavy and final. The fires still smoldered where catapults had burned out, but the screams had long since faded. We buried the dead in long, quiet rows—Varden soldiers, Urgals, dwarves, even some of the Empire's fallen who'd been left behind. No one spoke much. Shovels bit earth, torches hissed, and the wind carried the smell of blood and smoke. Percy worked beside me, sleeves rolled up, moving stones and dirt with the same steady focus he used to fight. Every now and then, his shoulder brushed mine, a silent anchor.
When the last grave was filled, we walked back through the camp. Tents glowed softly with lantern light; exhausted voices murmured prayers or goodbyes. Most of the survivors had already collapsed into sleep, the kind that comes after too much adrenaline and too little hope. The quiet was almost peaceful—almost.
We reached Nasuada's command tent. Inside, the air was thick with grief. Nasuada stood rigid beside a table strewn with maps and bloodstained cloth. Orik knelt nearby, beard matted with dirt, eyes red. Hrothgar's axe lay across his knees like a broken promise.
"He fell holding the center," Orik said, voice rough. "Took three Urgals with him. Refused to retreat."
Nasuada's jaw tightened. "The dwarves say they must return to Tronjheim. Their king needs proper rites. The clans will demand it."
I stepped forward to the few dwarves in the tent. "We need your axes here. The Empire isn't finished—"
"No." Orik's voice cracked like stone. "Hrothgar was more than king. He was our king. We're going tonight. All of us."
I opened my mouth to argue—logistics, morale, the line—but Percy's hand found mine, squeezing once. Let them grieve. I exhaled. They were already packing. By the time we left the tent, the dwarves were saddling ponies in the dark, torches low, moving like shadows. Most of the camp slept on, unaware that half our heavy infantry would be gone by dawn.
Percy and I walked back through the rows of tents in silence at first. The night air was cool, carrying the faint smell of pine from the distant forest. Lanterns swayed gently, casting long shadows. His fingers stayed laced with mine, thumb brushing over my ring in that absent, comforting way he did when he was thinking too hard.
"You okay?" I asked quietly.
He gave a small, tired laugh. "Yeah. Just... didn't expect to lose half an army to a funeral procession."
I squeezed his hand. "They lost their king. We'd do the same."
He nodded, eyes on the path ahead. "Still sucks. We were winning."
"We still are." I tugged him to a stop between two darkened tents. The camp sounds faded—soft snores, the crackle of dying fires. Just us. I turned to face him, studying the lines of his face in the low light: tired eyes, dirt smudged across his cheek, that stubborn curl falling over his forehead. Even battle-worn, he looked like home.
"Hey," I said softly. "We made it through today. Together."
His expression softened. He lifted our joined hands and pressed a kiss to my knuckles, right over the ring. "Yeah. We did."
I stepped closer, resting my forehead against his. "Tomorrow's gonna be rough. The adrenaline of the battle will fade and then, boom! Everyone's exhausted, and we make it half a league."
He smiled at my sudden change of mood. "Tomorrow can wait five minutes. How about we just think about how amazing we were today?" he murmured. His free hand slid to my waist, pulling me in. I let myself melt against him, breathing in the familiar mix of sweat, smoke, and salt that was so perfectly Percy. For a heartbeat, the war disappeared. No armies, no kings, a random world we had been dropped into. Just his heartbeat under my ear, steady and sure.
"I love you," he whispered against my hair. "Even when we're covered in mud, and half the world wants us dead."
I laughed quietly. "When do they not? Quite romantic if you ask me." At the remembrance of our filthy state, he sent some water into our clothes, effectively cleaning them and ourselves.
He tilted my chin up and kissed me—slow, gentle, like we had all the time in the world instead of none. When he pulled back, his eyes were soft. "Whatever happens tomorrow, Wise Girl, we've got each other. And two dragons who'd burn the sky down for us. That's enough. And we're both like super duper strong, so..."
I smiled, small but real. "More than enough."
We stood there a little longer, wrapped in each other, the night settling around us like a blanket. Somewhere nearby, Shorai and Furnöst rumbled contentedly, guarding the tents. The camp slept on.
Tomorrow would bring another mountain of struggle our way. Tonight, we had each other and the moon-filled night.
The morning rose like a kid going to school—lazily and slow, with golden light seeping through the tent flaps, then suddenly bursting upward in a blaze that chased away the last shadows of night. I blinked at the sudden brightness, rubbing my eyes as the smell of camp breakfast wafted in: bread, fruit, and that weird elven honey substitute. Percy was already up, stretching like a cat, his pointed ears twitching in the light—still weird, even after all this time.
"Morning, Wise Girl," he said, flashing that lopsided grin. "You look like you fought a nightmare army in your sleep. Who won?"
I rolled my eyes, sitting up. "Seaweed Brain, if I did, it was probably because you snored all night."
He clutched his chest. "Ouch. And here I was gonna share my secret stash of blue pancakes."
I snatched the plate from him, smirking. "You're forgiven. Barely."
We ate quickly, trading quips over bites—him mocking my bedhead, me calling out his "elf ears" that made him look like a Vulcan from Star Trek. With the dwarves gone, alliances were fraying. We decided to go adventure over to the Urgals' part of camp, which everyone, except Angela and Nasuada, stayed out of. Of course, during the walk there, there were the general looks of awe and amazement that were seriously starting to tick me off.
"Hey, calm down, Wise Girl, just think of it like this. Before, we didn't get recognized at all for any heroic quests we did; now we fight a couple of bad guys, and everyone loves us!" Percy explained. I smiled at his statement even though I was still pissed off about the looks.
The Urgal camp was a rough circle of leather tents and bonfires on the Varden's flank, smelling of roast meat and sweat. As we approached, heads turned—massive, horned skulls swiveling our way, yellow eyes narrowing. Urgals were built like tanks: broad shoulders, tusked jaws, skin scarred from a lifetime of brawls. Their leader, Nar Garzhvog, towered over the rest, horns curling like a ram's, arms thicker than my thighs.
"Who approaches?" Garzhvog rumbled, voice like grinding rocks.
"Annabeth Chase and Percy Jackson," I said, stepping forward. "Riders of Shorai and Furnöst."
Garzhvog's eyes flicked to our dragons lounging nearby, wings half-spread in that casual "try me" pose. He grunted and replied in a gravely yet friendly tone, "I have heard much about you; let me invite you to our fire." However, the other Urgals weren't so friendly with many of them baring their teeth while Percy smiled nad started waving like they were paparazii. Somehow, he got into a fight with another Urgal, and while annoying, it was quite funny to watch.
Percy grinned. "Cool. Let's fight then. Friendly-like."
I shot him a look—what are you doing?—but he was already shrugging off his jacket. An Urgal who had introduced himself as Ugrat laughed, a booming sound that shook the tents. "Brave little human. Come, test your horns against mine."
They squared off in a cleared ring, Urgals circling like it was the Super Bowl. No weapons—just fists and grapples. Percy bounced on his toes, all cocky energy. "No hard feelings if I win, big guy?"
Ugrat snorted. "If."
The fight started fast. Ugrat charged like a bull; Percy dodged, slipping under his swing and landing a quick jab to the ribs. The Urgal barely flinched, swinging a backhand that Percy ducked—just. He wasn't as fluid without Riptide; hand-to-hand wasn't his forte. Urgat grabbed his arm, yanking him off-balance. Percy twisted, using the momentum to elbow the Urgal's side, but Urgat slammed him to the ground.
Dust flew. Percy rolled up, gasping. "Okay, that hurt."
I winced—but healed his wounds with a wave—but he was grinning. Ugrat offered a massive hand. "Good fight, small one. You have fire."
Percy took it, pulling himself up. "You too. Rematch sometime? With swords?"
The Urgals roared approval. Garzhvog clapped Percy's shoulder—hard enough to stagger him—and invited us to the hearth. We sat around the fire, sharing stories. We talked for a while about meaningless stuff and of our previous adventures much to the enthusiasm of the Urgals. Percy joked about his "Minotaur mishaps," making them laugh like thunder. Garzhvog shared clan tales, bonding with Percy over lost friends and fierce loyalty.
By the time lunch was ready, it felt like we had been friends for years. "You both are welcome back to our fire anytime, and soon we shall give you more of our history next time," Garzhvog told us.
As we left, Percy pretended to rub his side, "Ow, it hurts so bad! I don't know if I'll make it..." At this, he pretended to fall to the floor in a faint.
"We both know I healed you fine, so why don't you get off the floor like a fish out of water and get ready for lunch?"
We laughed at the pun and headed for Nasuada's tent, where we were willingly welcomed with water and wonderfully well-done Wilsh, a rare kind of steak recently found by a group of scouts.
A/N: Not gonna lie, I think that is the longest alliteration I have ever seen with the letter W. Hope you enjoyed!