There were no horns.
No flags.
No loud declarations of war.
Only cold wind slipping through mountain cracks, and the quiet breath of those too tired to speak, but too stubborn to stay still.
Azriel stood before the wall map again.
The ink had dried, but the wounds had not.
So many names. So many towns. Scattered lights trying to burn in a world soaked in shadow.
They're all fighting.
Even if they lose… they've already lost everything before this began.
Behind him, the others were stirring—packing supplies, checking weapons, receiving orders from Kessle, and laughing too loudly just to keep themselves sane. But Azriel couldn't move. His gaze stayed fixed on one name, scratched into the center of the map in faint red:
"Jinah– Status: Gone."
That was the city he found the corpses, after the last battle. He remembered the smell of bodies. The silence afterward. The decision to retreat.
He remembered the weight of guilt that never left.
