She didn't move.
No golden flare. No final curse. No surge of dungeon power rebelling against fate.
Just a broken kobold in the dirt, steam rising gently from the edges of her burned cloak.
The battlefield was holding its breath.
The fight was over. The war hadn't noticed yet.
Quicktongue stumbled forward with blood matted in her fur and soot painted across her face like war paint no one asked for. Her shoutline was burned. She couldn't call orders. So she didn't.
She climbed the trench, one claw digging into the ridge wall, and looked out across the ruins of Ashring.
Not collapsed. Broken.
Still standing.
Still watching.
They were all looking at her now.
She didn't speak at first.
What could she say?
That the Sovereign was gone?
They already knew.
That the flame had gone out?
They could feel it in their bones.
So she said this:
"You thought we'd scatter."
Her voice cracked. She didn't fix it.
