Ash clung to the scent of blood in the air, thick and metallic, like rust soaked in smoke. Achilles wiped the blade of his sword with a scrap of linen torn from one of the roughs now rotting in the mud. They hadn't been much of a challenge—just another pack of mercenaries too desperate or stupid to know better. Still, he cleaned his sword with the same slow, deliberate precision as if he'd just struck down a monarch. There was something meditative about it, the way blood left steel under his hand, how the shine returned, unbothered and cold.
A bootstep squelched through the mud behind him.
"Your Highness," a voice said—low, measured.
Achilles didn't look up. "Report."
The soldier cleared his throat. Achilles could already guess who it was—Joren, one of his best fieldmen, always two steps ahead and annoyingly proud of it.
