Smoke still hung over the battlefield like a funeral veil.
Where the central wall had stood, there was now only a jagged maw of scorched wood and blackened earth. The dead lay thick along the trench lines, too many to count, orcs and Threians mixed together. Some were charred beyond recognition, their armor melted into their flesh. Others remained upright, impaled on makeshift barricades or slumped over the battlements as if they'd simply fallen asleep.
It was the first morning in many days without a direct orc assault.
And still, no one slept. They were afraid to let their guards down. Who knows when those orcs would launch their attack again, and they wouldn't want to be taken by surprise.
Captain Braedon walked the length of the central trench, his steps slow, deliberate. His boots crunched over ash and bone. Every few meters, he passed men too exhausted to speak, leaning on their weapons or tending to comrades with broken limbs, wounds big and small, and haunted eyes.
