The aftermath of the battle settled over the courtyard like a heavy mist. The clang of weapons had faded, leaving only the faint rustle of the breeze and the occasional pained groan from the wounded.
Alaric stood over Eskil, the icy pillar still jutting up from the ground, pinning Eskil like a captured beast. Blood stained the crystalline surface, glinting in the dim light. Alaric's breathing was steady, controlled, the only outward sign of the immense effort he'd just expended.
Across the battlefield, Asmund hesitated mid-swing, his mace poised above Lyra. His sharp eyes took in the scene—Eskil bloodied and defeated, his aura diminished to nearly nothing. The sight sent a jolt of uncertainty through the older warrior, and his grip on his weapon faltered.
