The great hall smelled of blood and burnt oil. Torches hissed in their sconces, their light revealing the wreckage—splintered shields, broken spears, the still forms of the fallen. The floor beneath Eolan’s boots was tacky with drying crimson. The battle was over, but the silence it left was heavy and fragile, like a pane of glass ready to shatter. The northern heir moved among the survivors, issuing quiet orders. “Gather the wounded by the hearth. Clear the dead before the next watch.” Her voice never faltered, but her eyes told another story—a weariness buried under duty. Eolan stood apart, his hands flexing at his sides. The shadow still clung to him, restless, curling around his shoulders like smoke that refused to fade. Every time it brushed against his skin, it left a cold spark, a reminder of what he’d unleashed. Arwyn approached, a strip of cloth pressed against the gash at his temple. “They’re saying you saved us,” he said, glancing at the soldiers who eyed Eolan from acr
Last Updated : 2025-08-12 Read more