Vaelira steadied his wrist with one hand while the other rooted for a vial of coagulant powder on her belt. The pouch clattered—empty. Behind her, medics canvassed the sand for splints and bandages, the orderly cadence of their ministrations already collapsing under the weight of too many mangled bodies. Marrin's breathing hitched, a stutter in the wet rattle of his chest.
Wind whistled through shattered spars littering the flats, threading uncanny notes through the air like a half-remembered battle hymn. Every gust swirled brine and blood into pink froth that slapped against discarded shields. Somewhere inland a gull cried, a thin, ragged sound far too normal for the carnage on the beach—and that thin splinter of normality pierced Vaelira worse than grief.
"Commander…" Marrin's voice rasped again. His eyes rolled, pupils blown wide as night pools, yet a flicker of command steel lingered behind the glaze. "Listen. The lads— they'll follow. You've got to steer them past regret."
