At sunrise, the battlefield was eerily quiet. The once-chaotic town of Carles now stood still, bathed in soft golden light of the first rays of the sun. All the Estalis soldiers had surrendered, their weapons discarded and their hands bound with rough ropes. They knelt in long, weary lines around the ruins of the town hall, their faces hollow with defeat. The air was heavy with the scent of smoldering rubble and damp earth.
Realization hit them hard. They were now prisoners of war. They do not know which one was better, to be dead or to be a prisoner of war.