The Aftermath

The sounds of battle faded into a haunting silence, the air thick with the scent of blood and smoke. The once-distant roar of conflict was now replaced by the soft cries of the wounded, the occasional clink of armor shifting as soldiers moved among the fallen. The battlefield was strewn with bodies, both friend and foe, and the cost of victory was laid bare before them.

Xypheron stood at the edge of the field, his chest heaving with exertion, his sword slick with blood. His armor was battered, a stark contrast to its once-pristine condition. His eyes scanned the devastation around him, the weight of the losses settling heavily on his shoulders. But the victory was theirs—it had to be.

Beside him, Vexaria stood as steadfast as ever, her expression grim as she surveyed the carnage. Her armor was similarly battered, streaked with dirt and blood, but there was no sign of weakness in her. She had fought with a ferocity that matched his own, and now, as they stood amidst the ruins, she was the anchor he hadn't realized he needed.

"We won," she said, her voice quiet but unwavering, as though she, too, was trying to convince herself of it.

Xypheron didn't respond immediately. His gaze lingered on the fallen soldiers, the faces of those who had fought and died for a cause they believed in. It was a bittersweet victory—one that would cost them far more than they had anticipated.

The army began to move among the bodies, collecting the