The storm that had swallowed the southern border drifted northward, leaving behind a world that seemed scraped raw. Mud-streaked roads wound between burned trees, and smoke clung low over the hills like a reluctant ghost. Selene and her forces had made camp near the river, the water still murky with the remnants of battle.
Night had fallen, but sleep refused to settle over the camp. Soldiers whispered in low tones, sharpening blades or sitting in exhausted silence by dying fires. The victory had been decisive, yes—yet no one felt victorious. The weight of loss lingered as heavily as the fog.
Selene stood alone at the edge of the riverbank, staring at the dark water flowing past her boots. Her armor was dented, her cloak torn, and a thin cut along her ribs still burned beneath the bandages. She hadn't let the healers touch her much—pain was grounding. Pain kept her focused.
Behind her, footsteps approached softly.
"Commander."
