The wind that swept through the shattered windows of Marquina Manor carried the scent of blood. The banners had changed—Estalian blue torn down and replaced with the golden eagle of the North—but Carles was still holding its breath. Smoke lingered in alleyways. Blood had not yet dried on the stones.
In Bener's bedroom—one of the few rooms not desecrated by the Zurans and Estalians—he stood by the window, his armor unstrapped, a goblet in hand, though he'd not drunk from it. His mind was still on the battle: the way Merlin had risen in the chaos, the crack of Aldrin's armor splitting under Odin's final blow, and the silence that followed. A silence louder than war.
"I must say," came a voice behind him, velvet-soft and edged like silk over steel, "you Northems clean up rather well—once the blood's washed off."
He turned. "You..."
Briella.
