The mist had retreated.
The gates were sealed.
The forces of Ortrus had vanished into ice and darkness, leaving behind only chaos. And the living... remained among the ruins, trying to understand what surviving even meant now.
Celina stood motionless by the gates longer than she intended. Ivríniel's presence beside her was a silent reminder.
In the rear, healers pushed themselves to their limits. Soldiers dragged themselves among the wreckage, carrying bodies — friends, brothers, strangers. Some still breathed. Others did not. The scent of ash, blood, and churned earth had become the new perfume of the dawn.
At the temple, Gunnar lay unconscious, overwhelmed by exhaustion. Julius watched over him in silence, vigilant.
The hours that followed the invasion brought no rest, only the confirmation of what everyone already knew:
Bryngal had endured.
Celina broke the silence first.
“How long will they remain silent now?” she asked, her eyes still locked on the sealed gate.
Ivríniel didn’t answer immediately. She gave a slight tap of her black staff, and two small beings formed from the air — animated spells, creatures of leaves and dust, their amber eyes glowing faintly. They floated off in opposite directions, understanding the weight of the moment.
“First, we organize what’s left,” said Ivríniel, with the calm of someone who had seen many cities burn. “Then we prepare. Your father will send orders soon.”
Celina nodded but didn’t relax her stance.
“The council will act. They won’t be able to ignore this.”
“I've already informed Eldoras,” Ivríniel continued. “And sent word to Vermund. House Grauven must reinforce their border. The duchess isn’t a fool. If she grasps the gravity of this, she’ll send a master.”
“Only a master can stop a master,” Celina said, almost to herself.
The silence was broken by the sound of approaching steps — dragging slightly but determined.
The captain of the guard appeared, tunic torn, his face marred by cuts and soot, one arm immobilized.
Celina turned to him.
“Amrod.”
The man stopped, breathing heavily, and gave a slight bow.
“Your Majesty.”
She studied him for a moment before issuing orders:
“Restore order. Gather the higher ranks, even the wounded. Tell the temple to prioritize those who can still return to the field. And start compiling a full damage report. I want numbers, names, losses... everything.”
Amrod nodded.
“I'll see to it immediately.”
“And, Captain...” Celina added as he turned.
“Thank you.”
The man simply bowed once more and disappeared among the shattered columns.
Ivríniel exhaled lightly, watching the leaf creatures still floating in the distance.
“It wasn’t a clean victory. But it was a victory.”
Celina, still steady, only replied:
“For now.”
The makeshift shelter smelled of blood, smoke, and old dust. The torn tarp overhead filtered a pale light that offered no warmth, and the sounds outside were muted and uneven — cautious footsteps, muffled coughs, long groans that spoke of pain deeper than the body.
Gunnar woke with his entire body aching.
He felt fused to the ground, as if his bones had been nailed into the mud.
It took him a long time to realize where he was.
Longer still to remember why.
Tovald.
He turned with effort.
The old man was there, lying still, head tilted to the side, arms resting across his chest.
He looked asleep.
But he wasn’t breathing.
Gunnar didn’t cry.
He just stared.
Then he found a thin blanket folded in a corner. He draped it gently over the old man’s body, smoothing it with care, the way you might make a friend's bed one last time before they left.
He said nothing.
He thought nothing.
He simply remained there, feeling the weight of something he still didn’t know how to name.
Eventually, he forced himself to stand, staggering. His leg throbbed, his stitched arm burned — but he didn’t stop.
He crossed the shelter without looking at anyone, without speaking, and stepped outside.
The day was gray and silent.
Broken towers. Empty windows like open, voiceless mouths.
His mind felt empty too. Voices in the distance sounded like a faint buzzing — easy to ignore.
A pressure grew in his chest, and it was only when he nearly stumbled into an exhausted priest that the numbness cracked.
The man didn’t wait for apologies.
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He just kept walking.
Without realizing, Gunnar had wandered to the area where the gravely wounded lay.
Men, mutilated and pale, lay on narrow mats like loaves forgotten in the sun.
He entered the largest tent.
The flap was open.
No one guarded the entrance.
Inside, he spotted Torben — one of the lads from his village.
Torben was slumped against a stone wall, missing a leg, his gaze hollow. His hands were clasped tightly together, as if holding something that wasn’t there anymore.
When he saw Gunnar, he tried to smile.
He failed.
“Gunnar...? Thought I was the only one left...”
“You survived,” Gunnar said.
“In pieces...” Torben replied with a weak laugh.
He paused, then asked in a whisper:
“What about Beric?”
Gunnar only shook his head.
Torben nodded slowly, his eyes wet.
He inhaled deeply, but the breath came hard.
“And the old man?”
“This night.”
Torben didn’t respond at once.
He blinked slowly.
His jaw trembled.
“I... I thought we'd all go home together.”
He started speaking of his wife.
Of the fields he tended.
The children he wanted.
The barn he promised to repair.
The stories he would tell.
He spoke until he couldn’t anymore.
“How am I supposed to go back home if I can’t even carry a sack of grain?” he whispered.
Gunnar tried to find words — that he was alive, that it mattered — but Torben cut him off:
“I’d rather not be.”
And then he fell silent.
Gunnar placed a hand on his shoulder, then quietly left.
He wandered through the camp like a ghost.
Past gaunt horses, soldiers dozing while standing, weapons forgotten in the mud.
Returning to the shelter, he saw a woman sitting by the entrance, puffing on a pipe, her expression as unreadable as stone.
She glanced sideways, as if she'd known he would come.
“Thanks for before,” Gunnar said awkwardly.
“Sorry for your loss,” she replied, softer than he expected.
“You saw him...?”
“Came to check on the patients. I usually do.”
Silence settled between them.
“Do you know where I can find paper? Something to write with?”
She raised an eyebrow.
“What do you think I am? A traveling stationery shop?”
Gunnar said nothing.
Just looked at her — his face grimy, his eyes hollow, his voice dry.
She grumbled under her breath, dug into her tunic, and produced a crumpled piece of paper and a stub of charcoal.
“Lucky you're cute. Otherwise, I’d tell you to go plant potatoes.”
She handed them over with mock disdain.
But there was a thread of tired humor in it.
“Leonora,” she said at last.
“Remember it if you plan to ask me for anything else.”
“I won't forget,” Gunnar answered firmly.
Leonora just nodded.
Gunnar dampened the charcoal with the corner of his tongue, took a breath, and wrote:
Uncle Brann, Aunt, Johan,
I hope this letter finds you well.
I'm in Bryngal — or what's left of it.
The days are hot, but the nights are cold.
Not the kind of cold that freezes your hands, but the kind that grips your chest and lingers.
Still, I'm alive.
Along the way, we ran into some creatures — "creméls," they called them.
Small, furry, with teeth too big for their mouths.
One of our group pinned one to the ground like a poorly planted turnip. It wasn't pretty.
We passed through Trowell.
I saw the Adventurer’s Association with my own eyes and registered.
So I'm officially an adventurer now.
Haven't completed any missions yet.
Probably will take a while to earn my copper badge.
Johan, I met a ranker. Even managed to punch him.
He was bronze-ranked — but they don't really need to show badges. Their presence is enough.
One nearly took my leg off with an arrow.
Uncle, remember that sword Olaf forged? The one with the braided leather hilt?
It broke — but it saved my life.
Tell him it wasn’t just any sword.
I'm tired — more scarred than I'd like — but I'm still standing.
I don't know when I'll return, but I will.
I still want to see Johan get married.
Hope he found the courage to confess.
Lene won't wait forever — and I expect nieces and nephews.
He signed simply: Gunnar.
Then sat for a moment, staring at the folded paper pressed against his chest, as if it were an anchor.
For a long while, he didn't know what to do with the silence around him.
Leonora had vanished somewhere into the camp — tending the wounded or smoking again.
Tovald needed nothing now.
The army would see to his body.
The temple would perform the rites.
Gunnar thought about digging a traditional grave, as back home in Dunverin.
But in the end, he gave up.
Maybe, if he could, he'd return the ashes to his homeland someday.
Maybe.
He drew in a long breath, pushed his battered body forward, and stepped out of the tents.
"Bryngal still stands..." he thought.
"But it wouldn't survive another blow."
He moved on — steady steps — toward the Adventurer's Association.
The facade was scorched, half-burnt.
The wooden sign swung lazily from a single bent nail.
Inside, controlled chaos: furniture piled against walls, makeshift beds laid over filthy mats, wounded adventurers scattered about, some groaning quietly, others sleeping — or trying to.
Two attendants did their best to keep things moving.
Barely.
Gunnar approached the improvised desk made of planks and crates, where the last letters and reports were collected.
“Look who’s still breathing.”
The voice came from the corner.
Jeliel.
Thinner now, his face hollow, but the same cynical glint remained.
He sat on a battered chair, copper badge still pinned — filthy — to his lapel.
“Jeliel...” Gunnar murmured, surprised.
“Can’t take that from you. Only the tough bastards are still around. And hey —” Jeliel nodded toward the desk — “at least the mail still runs. For now.”
Gunnar sat down on a pile of folded mats.
For a moment, neither spoke.
Only the muffled hum of the hall filled the space.
“The city’s a mess,” Gunnar finally said.
“Sure is,” Jeliel answered.
“That mage — the branch leader? Gone. Vanished when the attack hit. Most of the silver-rankers fell... or bolted before things turned ugly.”
“Who’s in charge now?”
“The captain of the guard. There's one silver left helping him. Together, they’re keeping the city from falling apart. Rufus — Viscount’s man — is basically their right hand now. Heard he had a nasty fallout with the viscount’s son.”
“And the Association?”
“No word. No reinforcements. Nothing.
Looks like they’re waiting for another attack before they move a finger.
The branch is a ghost town now.
Only the stubborn ones stayed.”
Gunnar nodded silently.
“I’m thinking about heading back to Havest,” Jeliel confessed, his voice low.
“Let the dust settle. This war doesn’t look like it’s ending soon... and a lot of folks are thinking the same.”
Gunnar looked at him thoughtfully.
“You’re right. But not all of us have that choice.”
He thought of Beric. Of Tovald.
Of the old fields in Dunverin he might never see again.
Jeliel bit his lower lip, then whispered:
“Alek and Darreck... they're gone. Did you know?”
Gunnar raised his eyes.
“You were with them?”
“No.
Got lucky, I guess.
I was on a mission further south. Safe zone.
They were patrolling the eastern walls...
They were among the first to fall.”
Another two faces.
Another two losses.
Gunnar clenched his fists in silence.
“What will you do now?” Jeliel asked after a while.
“I don’t know,” Gunnar answered.
“No one’s spoken to me yet.
I don't know where they’ll send me next.”
Jeliel sighed.
“They haven’t even finished counting the dead yet...”
His voice trailed off, low, almost lifeless.
