In the dim light of dawn, the sanctuary lay shrouded not just in the remnants of night but in a palpable veil of sombre reflection.
The aftermath of the battle spread before us like a haunting tableau, the once vibrant grounds marred by the scars of conflict.
As I walked through the sanctuary, each step seemed to echo with the silent stories of the night's turmoil.
The remnants of the beast tide—dark forms sprawled across the mud, their threat now quelled—were a grim reminder of the cost of our survival.
The heavy rain had washed away the worst of the blood, leaving behind a slick, muddied terrain that clung stubbornly to my boots.
Around me, the community stirred, emerging from shelters and homes like spectres, drawn by the instinctive need to witness, to comprehend the scale of what we had endured.
