Chapter 12

The battle was over. The British soldiers had been pushed back, their ranks decimated by the villagers' desperate strategy. The cliffs had claimed many lives, both friend and foe, and the air was thick with the scent of blood and smoke.

Hruaia stood at the edge of the village, his body aching and his mind numb. The adrenaline that had fueled him during the fight had faded, leaving behind a hollow exhaustion. He looked out over the battlefield, the bodies of the fallen scattered across the ground. It was a grim sight, a stark reminder of the cost of their victory.

Lianchhiari approached, her face streaked with dirt and blood. She placed a hand on his arm, her touch gentle but firm. "You did well," she said, her voice soft.

Hruaia shook his head, his eyes still fixed on the battlefield. "I didn't do enough. Too many people died."

"They died fighting for their home," Lianchhiari replied. "They died with honor."

Hruaia turned to look at her, his expression pained. "But was it worth it? Was this victory worth the cost?"

Lianchhiari's gaze was steady, her eyes filled with a quiet strength. "We cannot change what has happened. We can only honor their sacrifice by continuing to fight for what they believed in."

Hruaia nodded, her words offering a small measure of comfort. He knew she was right, but the weight of the lives lost still pressed heavily on his heart.

Zaii approached, his face grim. "We need to tend to the wounded and prepare for the next attack. The British will not give up so easily."

Hruaia took a deep breath, forcing himself to focus. "What do you need me to do?"

Zaii glanced at Lianchhiari, then back at Hruaia. "Help us gather the wounded. We need to get them to safety before the British regroup."

Hruaia nodded, his resolve hardening. He couldn't afford to dwell on the past. There was still work to be done.

The next few hours were a blur of activity. Hruaia moved through the village, helping to carry the wounded to safety and tending to their injuries as best he could. The villagers worked together, their movements swift and efficient despite the exhaustion that weighed on them all.

As the sun began to set, Hruaia found himself sitting by the fire, his body aching and his mind weary. Lianchhiari sat beside him, her presence a comforting anchor in the chaos.

"You should rest," she said, her voice gentle. "You've done enough for today."

Hruaia shook his head. "There's still so much to do. We need to prepare for the next attack."

Lianchhiari placed a hand on his arm, her touch warm and reassuring. "You cannot fight if you are exhausted. Rest now. We will need your strength tomorrow."

Hruaia wanted to argue, but the weight of his exhaustion was too great. He nodded, his eyes closing as he leaned back against the wall of the hut.

As he drifted off to sleep, his mind was filled with images of the battle—the clash of weapons, the cries of the wounded, the faces of those who had fallen. But amidst the chaos, one image stood out: the woman from his vision, her hand reaching out to him as he fell.

"Who are you?" he whispered, his voice barely audible.

But there was no answer, only the distant sound of the wind and the crackling of the fire.