Smoke lingered over the reclaimed town like a shroud of mourning. The fires had been doused, the wounded were being treated in hastily erected healing circles, and the streets, once filled with screaming and death, now echoed with quiet victory.
Darin stood at the heart of the square, one foot propped against a broken stone bench, warhammer slung across his back. His hands were dirty. His armor was cracked. His body ached from head to toe.
But they'd won.
They'd taken the town back.
Above the square, the sun broke through the clouds in slanted rays, casting light across a battlefield now littered with the remains of raiders, shattered weapons, and something else entirely.
Ash.
Black. Cold. Refusing to blow away.
Ash that didn't belong to burned wood.
Wendigo ash.
