The morning after the battle dawned slowly.
Not with sunlight—none reached the floor of the Forsaken Forest—but with the dim glow of silver leaves fluttering high above, catching what little light could break through the ancient canopy. Mist clung low to the ground, curling between roots and rocks like a living thing.
The corpse of the Saint Beast lay still in the center of their makeshift camp, its massive form already being overtaken by moss and curling vines. The forest had begun reclaiming it within hours, as if acknowledging the battle, accepting the outcome… and moving on.
Argolaith stood beside it, arms crossed, silent.
Not in mourning. Not in pride.
In focus.
Kaelred limped over, a half-eaten ration in hand. "You're thinking about cutting it open, aren't you?"
Argolaith didn't look at him. "The marrow is divine-touched. If we can preserve it, we might be able to extract it later. Could be useful."
