The Captain's head tipped forward, and his body crumbled to the ground with a sickening finality.
Still in his gut, the sickle hung silently, a reminder of the battle that had just taken place.
Ken stood, frozen for a moment, the weight of what had just happened settling over him like a heavy shroud.
The fight was done, but the Captain's last words hung in the air, mysterious and unresolved. What did he mean by them? Why had he said those things?
But before Ken could digest any of it, the environment around him changed. The air cold became acute, and cut deep, like the very temperature that had decreased.
The wind — a mere whisper against the battlefield — howled, rippling its ice-sewn fingers into the air, lacing into flesh like a knife.
Ken handled it with studied nonchalance, although his breath caught in his throat at the feel of it.
