The battle had already ended.
At least, it should have.
The ruined woodland bore enough scars to testify to that fact. Black flames still clung stubbornly to shattered trunks while deep trenches carved by Serathil's strikes stretched throughout the battlefield. The earth had been overturned so thoroughly that it no longer resembled a forest floor but the aftermath of some ancient catastrophe.
Zale stood amidst the destruction with remarkably little to show for it. Apart from a few tears in his clothing and traces of soot staining the sleeves of his robe, he appeared almost untouched. Serathil's segmented body slowly wound itself around his arm once more, the silver scales clicking softly against one another as though settling into a comfortable resting position after the hunt.
Across from him, however, Jabran looked considerably worse.
