Ash in the Wind

The wind had grown quiet again. Not because it had lessened—but because the chaos that had shattered the sky minutes before had finally passed.

Silence returned like a thief, sliding in behind the echoes of fire and steel, cloaking the world in stillness.

Thae'Zirak flew steady now, though his massive wings bore singe marks along the membranes.

Each beat of his wings stirred frost from the air, trailing ash from the aetherflame that had torn through the mercenary ranks.

Argolaith sat quietly, still gripping his sword, the tip stained with dark streaks. The metal vibrated faintly in his hand, humming with the last pulse of battle.

His blue eyes swept the sky behind them, scanning for movement, for stragglers. There were none.

"They're gone," Kaelred muttered, wiping a thin cut from his cheek. He hadn't even noticed the wound until now.

Malakar said nothing, violet flames in his eyes burning soft and low.