The air was still heavy with the scent of blood, iron, and ash.
Silence blanketed the ruined path like snowfall.
Dozens of bodies lay broken across the torn stones, twisted in the last moments of agony.
Here and there, limbs jutted from ruined armor, eyes frozen wide in death. What had once been a proud detachment of the Sanctum's elite now looked like nothing more than meat for the crows.
And Ian stood among them, unmoved.
His daggers were clean.
Somehow,as of recent they always were.
Like the blades drank the blood and it was never enough.
Caelen knelt beside a half-shattered corpse, peeling back scorched robes to reveal a steel-threaded pouch sewn beneath the cleric's chestplate.
Inside was what they seeked.
"Another relic," he murmured, holding it up. "That's five so far."
Lyra was already pulling one from a shredded belt off to the side, frowning.
"Six," she corrected.
Their voices barely carried, muffled by the oppressive quiet.
