Snow fell quietly over the scorched ruins of the southern outpost of Argenholme. The wind howled like the ghosts of soldiers who once stood watch here. The blood hadn't dried — not just from men, but from something else.
Herzl stood silently by a broken wall, staring down at a soldier's corpse with hollow eyes. The uniform was of the Republic. His face was mostly gone — eaten, maybe — but clenched in his stiff hand was a medal of honor.
"He died believing," Grim muttered behind him. "That's more than most."
"Believing in what?" Herzl asked. "A lie? Or a nation that sent him here to die for nothing?"
Grim didn't answer. He just lit a cigarette and stared at the frozen horizon. Something had changed in him since the battle with the Hollow One. He hadn't spoken of it, but Herzl noticed he avoided his reflection.
They were joined by Anna, bandaged and bruised.
"The corpses are different this time," she said. "No signs of wounds. Just… hollowed out."
Herzl glanced back at the dead soldier. There were no eyes, no tongue, no blood around the wounds.
"What did this?" he asked.
Grim crushed the cigarette. "Not what. Who. There's a name the Republic doesn't want us to remember."
Anna lowered her voice. "The Ashborn."
Herzl raised a brow. "I thought they were a myth."
"Every monster starts as a myth," Grim said. "Until they burn your comrades in front of you."
They left the ruined outpost by dawn, each carrying pieces of silence with them. The war was no longer just blood and bullets. Something ancient had stirred.