Away from the shore, silence crept in where screams had once been. Healers, both human and elf, moved with efficiency as they pressed, cauterized, and stitched wounds before moving on. The living were dragged aside while the dead were lined in rows, their faces covered and hands folded or left where they fell.

  Kaleel lay swaddled in rough blankets. His shoulder and stump were bandaged and the flesh cauterized. His breath was shallow but stubborn. Saahag stood over him with two healers, her hands slick with blood that was mostly not her own.

  Kooel sat at his brother’s side, bandaged and trembling with wide, unblinking eyes. His fingers hovered over Kaleel’s chest to count each breath. When Edduuhf approached, his voice was hoarse and grated by smoke. "He is breathing," he said.

  "Good." Edduuhf knelt, his joints protesting, and a scarred hand settled heavy and steady on Kooel’s shoulder. "He will not forget, and none of you will. War spares the dead, but it marks the living."

  Kooel looked up, his jaw clenched so hard it shook. "What happens now?"

  Edduuhf’s eyes hardened, and the warmth vanished as quickly as it had appeared. "Now we ask why. The answers are not here. The signs point inward, for someone in Eldoria gave them orders."

  Thalion walked among the corpses. He pressed palms to still chests and closed eyes that had once looked toward home, whispering names when he remembered them. His armor was split and his face was streaked with ash.

  "How many?" Saahag asked, her voice low and raw.

  "Too many," Thalion said, the word breaking slightly on his tongue. "It is at least half of our number."

  She looked toward the sky where the volcano’s plume rose black and endless. "Elves and humans are burned into ash. Not everyone will come home."

  Edduuhf joined them and finally sheathed his blade. The silence around him was heavier than any speech. "Ogres do not plan like this. The traps and the timing were deliberate. They had our schedules."

  "A traitor?" Thalion asked.

  "Maybe," Edduuhf replied. "Or it is someone who knows our every move as if it were their own."

  Nearby, Kooel heard the words. His hand tightened around Kaleel’s bandaged leg, and his knuckles whitened under dried blood. "We will find them," he whispered like a cold curse. "And they will pay."

  Ash drifted down like black snow. There were no cheers or songs. The Second Company had survived, but in every survivor lived a wound no healer could close. Enemy corpses burned in heaps, and oily smoke blotted the sky. Eldoria’s fallen were wrapped in cloaks and lifted with care onto the decks. The ships had become great wooden biers.

  Edduuhf moved like a carved shadow, and the sword at his hip radiated a faint, restless warmth. His eyes carried no victory, only vigilance and a promise of reckoning. At the boarding point, Thalion stood with cracked armor and bandages peeking under his plates. His voice was hoarse but steady.

  "Wounded first," he ordered. "Then weapons and supplies. There will be no banners and no pride. Only the living remain."

  No one argued. Kooel never left his brother’s side as he tucked Kaleel’s cloak tighter and adjusted his head against the rocking planks. His eyes fixed on the horizon as if the river owed him an answer.

  At last, the oars dipped into black water. The sails caught a pale wind. The volcano’s glow shrank behind them until it was nothing but a scar on the horizon. No cheers followed them upriver. Only silence, thick as mourning, remained.

  Kooel sat at the prow with golden eyes fixed on the water. His chest rose heavy and his bandaged torso trembled with every breath. The gray river stretched endless before him like an open wound.

  "We made it, Edduuhf," he rasped at last. "But that ambush was not ogre luck. They were in formation and waiting. They had leaders."

  Edduuhf lowered himself beside his nephew, and the boards creaked under his weight. He listened to the rhythm of the river shearing along the hull. "That is what haunts me. It was not rage; it was method. Someone guided them. They knew the place and the day. They struck where it would hurt the most." His green eyes narrowed and his jaw tightened. "It smells like betrayal."

  Kooel’s fists tightened until the leather of his bandages strained. His voice hardened to iron. "So someone among us is feeding them."

  Edduuhf nodded once. "Maybe more than one. If we do not uncover them soon, the other companies could already be walking into traps." The words hung in the mist like ash. The river darkened and the surface swallowed the light.

  At the stern of another boat, Thalion stood beside Saahag. The wind tugged at their hair and carried the acrid tang of burned flesh. His shoulders were hunched with fatigue, but his gaze stayed locked on the shrinking cliffs.

  "I can still hear the screams," Saahag murmured as she wiped a smear of dried blood from her cheek. "The first time I saw an ogre rip a man apart, I did not think it would touch me like this. War changes us."

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  Thalion’s jaw flexed. "It was the worst fight of my life, and it will not be the last."

  Saahag drew a slow breath to steady herself. "I have never fought a true war before. I have only known raids and missions. I joined Eldoria’s mercenaries months ago, but I was raised for this. My adoptive father, Peheef, took me in when I lost everything in Zao." Her gaze went distant. "My mother was human and my father was elven. Both were killed in raids. Later, dragon fire burned Zao to the ground. We rebuilt fiercer and harder. I carry that memory into every fight."

  Thalion’s eyes softened for a heartbeat. "And this war?"

  Her eyes hardened again. "This war is different. It is monstrous and empty. There are no rules and no honor. There is only slaughter."

  "And yet you are still standing," Thalion said. "That says enough."

  She swallowed and nodded once. "Standing is not enough. We must be ready for what comes next. We cannot let this happen again."

  Thalion’s gaze lifted to the gray peaks ahead where Eldoria’s silhouette would soon emerge. "We cannot. But when we return, the people will decide how they see us. They will decide if we are shields or reminders of their fear."

  The sails cracked above them. The river pulled them north toward a city already heavy with shadows.

  Night was falling when Eldoria’s towers surfaced through the haze. Banners fluttered in the dark wind, limp as tired hands. No celebration met them. The Second Company did not return as heroes; they returned as scarred warnings.

  Kooel carried Kaleel in his arms with a locked jaw. Healers rushed forward with stretchers, and Kooel followed without a word. Every step he took was made of iron. Edduuhf walked just behind him with a gaze fixed ahead as though the battlefield still stretched in front of him. Thalion and Saahag disembarked side by side, filthy and exhausted. The crowd at the docks kept its distance, parting as if war itself clung to their armor. The people saw shattered plates and heard the absence of song.

  The chamber smelled of ink and old stone. Five chairs were filled, but one stood empty. Leelinor’s absence pressed on the room like a missing limb. Groon’s death hung over them all.

  Guhile, the Councilor of Engineering, stood by the balcony. He turned sharply with a clipped tone. "So this is what remains of our hope? They return alive, but they bring pain and grief. The people see broken soldiers and burned flesh. If we do not manage what is told, they will devour us in the streets."

  Caroline, the Councilor of Diplomacy, clasped her hands. Her voice trembled. "I was never in favor of this war. We warned them this campaign would bleed us. Now Groon lies in the earth and heroes return as corpses. This was butchery."

  Karg leaned back in his chair with his arms folded across his broad chest. "She is right. What the people see at dawn is failure dressed as survival. Our allies will question our strength and our enemies will scent weakness. Every banner we raised now trembles."

  Abhoof drummed thick fingers against the table. Each tap echoed like a hammer. "The city already questions. Traders hesitate and caravans delay their journeys. Hungry mouths are louder than war drums. If we do not act, the unrest outside these walls will become rebellion."

  Caroline turned toward the balcony to listen to the growing noise. "They are already gathering. Mothers demand why their sons did not come back. Merchants shout about burned convoys. Even priests whisper that this war has no divine sanction. We are losing the people."

  At last, Zeeshoof spoke. His voice was calm and heavy with years. "Judgment now is premature. The Third Company still marches. The game is not yet finished."

  Guhile gave a bitter smile. "Pieces, Zeeshoof? Or pawns?"

  A hush followed. Guhile’s suspicion and Caroline’s grief filled the air. Finally, Guhile lowered himself into his seat. "I pray the Third brings back answers and not just more corpses. Eldoria has lost enough, and the people will not forgive us again."

  From beyond the balcony, the clamor rose as fists pounded on stone. Chants without rhythm demanded the truth. For the first time in generations, the Council did not feel above the city; they felt cornered by it.

  At the docks, the crowd swelled. Lanterns swayed over restless faces. Mothers clutched the cloaks of soldiers who never stepped off the boats, and fathers raised fists at the walls, shouting the names of sons left in ash.

  "They said our warriors would bring victory!" a woman screamed. She held a bloodied cloak to her chest. "But all I have is this!"

  Others roared in answer, demanding to know where the promises and heroes were. "Two companies are gone and the Vale still stands! What else are they hiding?"

  Veterans who had once cheered for war now spat into the street. One old soldier raised his scarred arm. "I fought under Groon! If even he is dead, then the Council lied to us. They lied about our strength and our cause!"

  The words struck like sparks on dry wood. Stones clattered against the walls. Guards shifted uneasily as they lifted their shields, but their eyes held the same doubts as the crowd.

  In market squares, merchants argued with priests. "This war drains our coffers! How will we last the winter?"

  A priest of the High Flame shook his head. "This war was not sanctified. The gods watch, but they do not bless. That is why our sons fall."

  Even the young joined in. "No more lies! No more graves! No more wars for shadows!"

  The noise rolled through Eldoria like thunder. For every careful word spoken in the chamber, a thousand rose outside. Eldoria’s enemy was no longer just beyond the rivers; it was also within its own walls.

  In the healers’ wing, lanterns burned low. The air was thick with the scent of herbs and blood. Kaleel lay motionless on a narrow cot. His right arm was bound in linen, and runes of elven healing smoldered faintly along the bandages. His skin was pale, but his chest still rose and fell.

  Kooel sat beside him like a statue of grief. His eyes were bloodshot and his frame trembled, but his hand never left his brother’s leg. He had not slept since the battle ended. Each heartbeat he stayed awake felt like a pact, as if closing his eyes might invite death to take Kaleel.

  The door creaked. Edduuhf entered and his boots were quiet on the stone. He lowered himself beside Kooel and set a hand on his nephew’s shoulder. "You kept him alive," he said. "He will see the end of this war."

  Kooel gave the faintest nod. His lips parted, but no sound came. The rage that had carried him through the Scalding Vale had burned down to ash.

  The chamber hummed with labored breathing. Outside the stone walls, Eldoria whispered of failure and betrayal. The rot was not at the borders; it was in the heart of the city. Something had cracked inside Eldoria, and it would soon bare its face.

  In the corridors, the silence broke. Families crowded the halls and mothers begged for news. Children clutched blood-stained cloaks. A soldier limped past on a crutch, his teeth clenched. Another was carried out beneath a shroud, his name swallowed by grief. The city was filled with mourning. Rumors coiled through the air like smoke: this was not just war, for someone had let this happen.