The sun has long since risen, casting a light over the weary procession as they return to the encampment.
The once tense march through the forest is now a somber trek, the silence broken only by the shuffle of boots and the occasional groans of the wounded. The victorious cries of battle feel like a distant memory, replaced by the muted reality of survival.
When the clearing comes into view, the guild members spring into action. Some guiding stretchers carrying the severely injured while others drag themselves to their stations to prepare for what comes next.
The weight of their triumph bears down on everyone, a reminder of what it cost to bring the hive to its knees.
The encampment is eerily quiet despite the flurry of activity. Rows upon rows of blanketed bodies stretch across the clearing, each one marked by a small roll of cloth at their feet, containing their personal belongings—simple tokens of the lives they once lived.
The sight is grim, a silent testament to the cost of victory.
The air is heavy with the mingled scents of blood, sweat and smoke, clinging stubbornly to the survivors as they work through their exhaustion.
Around the perimeter, guild members move tirelessly, tending to the wounded. Makeshift triage stations have been set up, with hunters-turned-medics crouching over their comrades, wrapping cuts and stitching wounds with shaking hands.
Others struggle to stabilize those who have lost limbs, their cries muffled by clenched teeth or hastily applied cloths to stifle the pain. Crates of supplies are cracked open, their contents emptied faster than they can be restocked.
Every capable hand is put to work, whether splinting broken bones, boiling water for sterilization, or simply offering a shoulder to lean on.
In the center of it all, Cole stands like a beacon, issuing commands with unwavering resolve. His voice cuts through the subdued murmurs, directing people to where they are most needed.
"Move the critical ones to the city when the second wave arrives. We've done enough dying for one day," he says firmly.
Around him, his guild follows his lead without question, their loyalty evident even amidst the devastation.
Eska and Valen sit off to the side, their exhaustion palpable as they watch the scene unfold.
Eska's gaze lingers on the rows of fallen hunters, her chest tightening at the sheer number. Valen, his arm still in a sling, doesn't say a word, but his clenched jaw and furrowed brow speak volumes.
This was a victory, but one that came at a cost none of them would soon forget.
Lenna sits on a fallen log at the edge of the encampment, her posture stiff with the bandages wrapped tightly around her side and arm. Her sharp gaze cuts through the flickering firelight, locked on Eska with an intensity that betrays her simmering frustration.
One hand rests protectively over her wounded side, but the other grips her knee, her knuckles white as if clinging to some shred of composure. Her expression is a mask of barely concealed disdain, the corners of her lips tight and her narrowed eyes watching Eska's every move with silent judgment.
She doesn't speak, but her eyes say enough—watching as Eska, bruised and battered yet alive, shares a quiet moment with Valen. Eska's survival, her near-thriving amidst the chaos, gnaws at Lenna's sense of order.
This wasn't how things were supposed to go.
Her thoughts churn as she absently taps her fingers against her forearm, her mind replaying the events of the hive. The girl had fought toe-to-toe with a Queen, survived a sinkhole and held her ground in a battle where seasoned hunters fell.
Lenna had seen hunters like her before—untested, reckless, lucky—but this was something else. She huffs quietly to herself, averting her gaze briefly as if even acknowledging Eska's victory might give her some kind of validation.
Yet, her eyes inevitably return, narrowing as she watches Eska laugh softly at something Valen says. It stings, more than Lenna cares to admit, that the so-called "heretic" had proven herself in ways Lenna never expected.
Their quiet conversation, punctuated by the occasional chuckle, already grates on her nerves. But then, as Valen leans slightly closer, his voice dropping into a softer tone, Lenna sees it—his hand resting gently on top of Eska's.
The gesture is simple, almost insignificant to anyone else, but to Lenna, it's like a spark igniting her simmering frustration. Her lips press into a thin line and her grip on her knee tightens as a fresh wave of irritation courses through her.
The way Eska looks down at their hands with a soft smile, as if it's the most natural thing in the world, only adds fuel to Lenna's already burning indignation.
She doesn't deserve that, Lenna thinks bitterly, the words echoing in her mind as she glances down at the blood-soaked bandages on her arm.
Her jaw tightens, the sting of her wounds a sharp reminder of everything the battle had cost—and of what she perceives Eska had somehow been spared.
The sound of approaching footsteps draws her attention and she straightens slightly, masking her thoughts as Cole approaches. She doesn't meet his eyes, instead fixing her gaze on the ground, the weight of her unspoken frustration heavy in the air.
Back at the pair before Lenna's seething.
Valen leans back slightly, a rare softness in his eyes as he speaks.
"Your mother would be proud," he says with quiet sincerity, his gaze lingering on Eska. "What you did today was incredible, Eska. You held your ground, saved lives—more than anyone could have expected."
Eska's lips curl into a wry smile, but it's tinged with a hint of mischief.
"Mom? Proud?"
She shakes her head, her voice filled with mock exasperation. "No way. She'd be furious with me! I broke all the rules today."
She raises her hands dramatically, as if reenacting her mother's imagined reaction. "Don't engage with monsters. Don't overextend. Don't ever, ever fall into a sinkhole filled with monsters!"
Valen chuckles, his shoulders relaxing for the first time in what feels like hours.
"Alright, maybe she'd yell at you for the sinkhole part," he admits, his tone teasing, "but I think she'd have a harder time ignoring the fact that you took on a Queen and lived to tell the tale."
Eska rolls her eyes playfully. "She'd probably just point out all the ways I could've done it better."
Her tone is light, but there's a flicker of genuine warmth in her smile as she speaks. "Then she'd give me that 'I told you so' look and make me take care of the farm as punishment."
"Sounds like a tough woman," Valen replies, his laughter fading into a gentle smile. "But if she's anything like you, I can see where you get it from."
Eska looks down at her hands, a small blush creeping into her cheeks. "Yeah, she is tough… and smart. Way smarter than me. She would've figured out a way to do all this without…" She trails off, her gaze shifting toward the rows of bodies nearby.
Valen reaches over and places his hand gently on hers, giving it a firm squeeze.
"What you did today wasn't perfect," he says, his voice steady, "but no one here would call it anything less than heroic. You're stronger than you give yourself credit for, Eska."
She looks up at him, her cheeks still faintly red, before letting out a small laugh.
"Alright, hero, don't go getting all sappy on me now." Eska teases, her laughter breaking through the tension with surprising ease.
"We've both got enough bruises to make sure we stay humble." Her voice carries a lightness that hadn't been there moments ago and it's enough to draw a genuine chuckle from Valen.
"Fair enough," he replies, his lips curling into a relaxed grin as he leans back slightly.
His hand, still resting on hers, remains in place—not out of oversight but because neither of them seems to mind. The firelight flickers softly, casting warm shadows across their faces as the camp settles into a quiet hum of activity around them.
For the first time since the battle began, the weight on their shoulders feels a little lighter, shared silently between them in the small, unspoken connection they've found.
Cole approaches quietly, his footsteps soft against the dirt as he comes into the firelight.
His face is drawn but calm, the faint flicker of exhaustion visible in his eyes.
"Valen, Eska," he begins, his voice low but firm. "We're sending a group of the most severely wounded back to the city. They won't make it if we keep them here and I need someone capable to accompany them. Someone who can handle any trouble that comes up along the way."
"You want us to go with them?" Valen asks.
Cole nods. "I do. You've both done enough here and frankly, I trust you to get them back safely."
Eska exchanges a brief look with Valen before nodding. "We'll go," she says with quiet determination. "Just tell us when to move."
Cole places a hand on Valen's shoulder, giving him a small, grateful squeeze before heading back into the camp to finalize preparations.
The team gathers near the edge of the encampment, where the Namuras are lined up.
The creatures are saddled and loaded with supplies.
Eska stands frozen for a moment, staring up at the Namura assigned to her and Valen. "That's... bigger than I imagined," she mutters, her voice tinged with both awe and trepidation. The Namura huffs softly, its breath visible in the cool air, as if unimpressed by her hesitation.
Valen steps beside her, placing a steadying hand on her shoulder.
"It's not as bad as it looks," he says with a reassuring smile. "I'll help."
He mounts the Namura with ease before extending his hand down to Eska. She hesitates but eventually takes it, allowing him to pull her up behind him. "Hold on to me and let the Namura do the work," he instructs with a calm tone.
Eska clings to his waist, her grip a little tighter than necessary as the Namura shifts its weight and begins to move.
Around them, other hunters mount their Namuras, their faces a mixture of determination and fatigue as the group prepares to escort the wounded back to the city.
The quiet, rhythmic thuds of the Namuras' footsteps soon replace the clamor of the camp as the team begins their journey.