We found the carriage several miles down the road, where the coachmen awaited our return with palpable anxiety. They wouldn't have waited another hour for us, judging by their tense expressions. The journey back was cloaked in an oppressive silence, leaving everyone on edge, save for Fyren, who appeared to be in a good mood.
The searing image of the radiant pillar of light still blazed in my memories. The bandits' bodies consumed by flames, turned to ash while their anguished screams echoed in my mind. Their cries haunted me, but I knew that Soltair bore the brunt of the burden. He sat there, staring at the floor, unresponsive even as Trithe gently laced her fingers through his.
Perhaps Fyren was right. This was indeed a war, and it seemed the bandits had chosen the wrong side. The Pope seemed to concur, even ordering us to eliminate any towns or cities that got in our way. It was a hard choice to make, one that might not even have a right answer.
