The sun hung low in the sky, its crimson rays casting a blood-soaked glow across the battlefield. Smoke rose in thick, black plumes from the scorched earth, mingling with the lingering scent of death and magic. Lucian stood at the edge of a cliff overlooking the devastation, his eyes scanning the horizon as his heart weighed heavy in his chest. The enemy had been defeated, the ritual shattered, but the cost had been greater than anyone could have anticipated.
Behind him, Isolde approached quietly, her armor dented and covered in soot, her expression solemn. She stopped beside him, saying nothing for a moment, simply sharing the silence of the aftermath.
"It's over," she finally said, though her voice lacked the usual sharp confidence. She didn't sound victorious, and Lucian understood why.
