The bodies burned for three days.
Not because there were so many—though two hundred and sixteen corpses made for a substantial pyre. But because blessed flesh resisted infernal fire, holy wards embedded in the very bones fighting against desecration even in death.
In the end, they had to use mundane wood and oil. Let the bodies burn the old way, the human way.
Liam watched from his quarters as smoke rose in a thick, greasy column toward the gray Ashard sky. He hadn't slept since the battle. Couldn't, really.
Every time he closed his eyes, he saw their faces.
Not the ones who'd died fighting. Those were expected. Necessary. The cost of war.
No, he saw the ones who'd surrendered. The young paladin who'd been first to drop his sword. The scout, Marcus, who'd survived the ridge trap only to die chained in the dirt. Thomas, whoever Thomas had been, with his eyes that looked at nothing.
He'd ordered them killed.
And felt nothing.
