The morning after the truce was announced, Emberhold was quiet, almost eerily so. The fires from the battle had long since died, leaving behind the scent of ash and blood. People moved with weary steps, tending to wounds, repairing broken structures, or simply sitting in silence, trying to process everything that had happened.
Alexander sat at the main meeting hall, a simple wooden structure that had become the center of leadership in Emberhold. In front of him was a casualty report—one he had been dreading.
Silas stood across from him, arms crossed, watching him carefully. "You should eat before you go through that."
Alexander didn't respond immediately. Instead, he picked up the parchment and read the first line.
Casualty Report
Twenty-three dead.Thirty wounded.Twelve of the wounded are too injured to fight for at least a month. Three may never recover fully.
Alexander let out a slow breath, his grip tightening on the parchment.
It wasn't as devastating as he had feared, but that didn't make it any easier. Twenty-three men and women who had put their faith in him—gone. Thirty more who would carry the scars of this battle for the rest of their lives.
Gareth entered then, rubbing a bruised shoulder. "I assume you've read the numbers."
Alexander gave a short nod. "I have."
Gareth sighed, leaning against the table. "It's bad, but not as bad as it could've been. Still, every one of those names is a friend, a neighbor. We need to do right by them."
Silas spoke up. "People are looking to you for answers, Alexander. Some of them are grieving. Others are angry. You need to address them."
Tyrell walked in next, his expression unusually serious. "It's already started, Alex. Some people are asking why we even made peace with the Baron after everything. A few think we should've pushed to wipe him out."
Alexander set the report down. "If we kept fighting, more would have died. And even if we somehow won, we'd be too weak to hold anything. That's what they need to understand."
Silas nodded. "Then you should be the one to tell them."
Addressing Emberhold
The people of Emberhold gathered in the main clearing. The usual sounds of daily life—hammering, training, laughing—were absent. There was only quiet expectation as they waited for Alexander to speak.
He stepped forward, standing atop a small wooden platform near the meeting hall. His gaze swept over them, taking in the bandages, the exhausted faces, the grief in their eyes.
"We survived," he began, his voice firm but heavy with the weight of loss. "But we lost twenty-three of our own. Good men. Good women. People who fought for this settlement, for their families, for the future we're trying to build."
A murmur ran through the crowd, grief rippling outward. Some lowered their heads, others clenched their fists.
"I won't tell you that this was a victory without cost. Every name on that list is a reminder of what it took to get here. But I will tell you this—Emberhold still stands. And it stands because of them."
He let the silence hang for a moment before continuing.
"We made peace with the Baron because it was the right choice. Had we pushed forward, we could have lost more. Maybe everything. The Baron had reinforcements coming. Another wave, more soldiers, more death. We could not afford that."
Some people shifted uncomfortably, but no one interrupted.
"But peace does not mean we forget," Alexander continued. "It does not mean we let our guard down. It means we have time—time to rebuild, time to grow, time to ensure that Emberhold is never threatened again."
Tyrell stood near the front, arms crossed. "And what about the dead?" he asked, not confrontationally, but with the voice of someone speaking for many.
Alexander nodded. "We will honor them. In two days, we will hold a funeral. Every name will be spoken, every loss acknowledged. They fought for something greater than themselves, and that will not be forgotten."
Elias, standing further back, nodded approvingly. "They died warriors."
Alexander looked over the crowd again. "We will rebuild. We will grow stronger. But we do it together. For those who fell, for those who are still standing, and for those who will come after us."
A long silence followed. Then, slowly, heads nodded. The grief would not vanish, the anger would not disappear overnight, but Alexander had given them a direction—something to hold on to.
Gareth stepped forward. "When do we start preparing the funeral?"
Alexander glanced toward the sky. The sun was beginning to set, casting long shadows over Emberhold.
"Tomorrow," he said. "We do it right."
And with that, the people of Emberhold dispersed, carrying their sorrow with them. The dead would be honored. The living would continue on.
The battle was over, but their fight to build a future had only just begun.