Aftermath

The battle had ended, but its aftermath was just beginning.

The ground was littered with the remnants of war—fallen soldiers, broken weapons, and the shattered remnants of what had once been whole. The air was thick with the acrid scent of smoke and blood, a bitter reminder of the violence that had unfolded just hours before.

Xypheron stood at the edge of the battlefield, his eyes scanning the carnage with a cold detachment. Victory had been theirs, but at what cost? The weight of the lives lost, the men and women who had fought and died in the name of a cause greater than themselves, hung heavily in the air.

Beside him, Vexaria wiped the sweat and blood from her brow, her expression a mask of exhaustion, but also something more—a quiet, solemn understanding that this battle, like so many before it, had demanded more than she had ever expected to give.

"You did well," Xypheron murmured, his gaze still distant as he turned toward her. His voice was softer now, stripped of its usual hardness, revealing the vulnerability beneath the stoic exterior.

Vexaria's lips twitched into a small, weary smile. "We did," she corrected him, her voice hoarse from the exertion of battle. "Together."

There was a long silence between them, filled only with the sounds of the battlefield settling. The dead were being counted, the wounded tended to, and the surviving soldiers regrouped, their weariness palpable in every movement. But for Xypheron and Vexaria, the quiet moment was a brief respite—one they both needed before the next phase of their journey.

"You're not celebrating," Vexaria said, a note of curiosity creeping into her voice as she observed his distant expression. "Shouldn't we be?"