The battlefield smelled of iron and decay. The cries of the wounded still echoed through the trees, mixing with the distant howls of scavengers drawn to the carnage. I stepped over bodies—some ours, some theirs—each face frozen in their final moments. Eyes wide, mouths slack, hands still clutching weapons they would never raise again.
My fingers twitched at my sides. The blood on my hands had dried, flaking at my knuckles. It was not my own.
I flexed my fingers, staring at the stains. The first kill had come easy, almost too easy. Should I have felt something more? Disgust? Sorrow? Instead, there was only clarity—a sharp, unshaken certainty that this was the path I had chosen.
Varlen approached, his armor scratched but intact. "You fought well. Didn't hesitate. That's good."
I met his gaze, searching for some hidden meaning behind his words. Approval? Warning? I found neither. Just a simple truth.
"Hesitation gets you killed," I said.
He nodded once. "Exactly."
Cyrus stood at the edge of the battlefield, surveying the fallen with quiet solemnity. I made my way to him, each step deliberate, measured. When I reached his side, he didn't look at me immediately. Instead, he gestured toward the dead.
"War is never glorious, Lavina. Victory does not erase the cost."
I let the words settle, watching as crows circled overhead. "I know."
He finally turned to me, studying my face. "And yet, you do not grieve."
"No." I met his gaze without wavering. "I knew what I had to do. I did it."
A long silence stretched between us, broken only by the distant crackle of dying fires.
Then, Cyrus placed a hand on my shoulder. "You will go far, Lavina. But war changes men—and women. Remember who you are, even as you become something more."
I did not reply. I wasn't sure there was anything left to remember.
The girl from Windmere had died long ago.
Only the soldier remained.