The Mercer territory did not look like a battlefield anymore — but it still felt like one. Stone by stone, breath by breath, Sereia Mercer moved through it like a storm that had learned patience. Rebuilding was already underway. Broken walls were being measured, not mourned. Burned fields were marked for renewal instead of lament. Injured soldiers were treated, questioned, and reassigned with the efficiency of a general who refused to indulge grief in daylight. Sereia stood at the edge of what had once been a market square, arms folded, silver eyes cold and exact. “Reinforce the southern wall first,” she said sharply to a commander. “I don’t care if it looks ugly. I care if it holds.” He bowed immediately. Cassian Mercer watched her from a few steps back, hands clasped loosely behind his back. Where Sereia cut, he mended — quietly, without spectacle. He moved among shaken villagers, offering soft words, listening, taking notes that no one else bothered to write down. Where Sere
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