A Fragile Peace

The days following the battle were a blur of movement. The army was scattered across the landscape, tending to the wounded, burying their dead, and fortifying their positions for whatever came next. The victory, though hard-earned, was bittersweet, leaving behind a lingering heaviness that hung in the air like the smoke of the battlefield.

Xypheron stood on the balcony of the command tent, gazing out over the camp as it came to life with the busy hum of soldiers preparing for the next phase of their campaign. The camp was still tense, but there was a quiet undercurrent of hope—a glimmer that things might be different, that perhaps the tide was turning.

Beside him, Vexaria stood, her eyes scanning the camp with the same intensity that had marked her in battle. Her posture was stiff, as if the weight of what they had just survived was beginning to settle in her bones. She hadn't spoken much since the victory, her mind clearly preoccupied with the road ahead.

"You're quiet," Xypheron said, turning toward her, his voice soft. "What's on your mind?"

Vexaria met his gaze, her eyes dark and thoughtful. "The enemy will regroup. They always do," she said, her words echoing the sentiment from the day before. "And there are other forces out there—ones we haven't even begun to face."

He nodded, knowing exactly what she meant. There were factions, old rivalries, and political maneuvering that threatened to fracture the fragile peace they had fought for. A victory on the battlefield didn't guarantee success in the war—there were still alliances to