Deep in the forest, somewhere between death and disgrace, Kury carried Denish on her shoulder like a broken flag—torn, bloodied, but still somehow standing. The canopy above them blurred with each blink. She could barely keep her eyes open, and when they did stay open, everything swam. Her ribs screamed with every breath. Her leg barely responded. Her armor—once shining with the proud mark of Berkimhum—was cracked open, stained with a dozen lives' worth of blood, not all of it hers.
Behind them, a noble—Baron Tevrin—cradled his severed hand like it was a newborn child, blood soaking his fine silks. His lips trembled, not from pain but the sheer absurdity of survival. His eyes were wide, too wide, staring at the trail behind them like the ghosts would catch up if he blinked too hard.
"We… we lost," he stammered, his voice thin as smoke. "We're gonna lose… It's over… it's fucking over…"
