Dawn did not cleanse the battlefield.
It revealed it.
Smoke still crawled low across the plains of Ashborne, thick and sour, clinging to broken spears and blackened armor. The fires had burned themselves out during the night, leaving behind smoldering patches of earth and the unmistakable scent of charred flesh.
The dead lay where they had fallen.
Some were half-buried in churned mud. Some had been thrown far from where they had stood. Others lay twisted in ways no living body should bend.
Ardenfall's blue and golden was almost stained black.
Rowan stood at the edge of the field and watched men begin the counting.
Clerks moved carefully between corpses, marking names where they could recognize faces. Priests followed behind them, whispering last rites to those who had none left to hear them.
The air was colder this morning.
Or perhaps that was only to him.
He stepped forward.
With each step his boots sank slightly into soil that had not yet settled. He passed a shattered cavalry unit, horses lay twisted and stiff, their open eyes now dull, reflecting nothing. The smell hit harder in the daylight.
But he could not look away.
He had chosen to ride ahead.
He had chosen to lower his guard.
Just then—
A stretcher passed him.
Blue and gold draped across it.
Rowan stopped walking.
Even beneath the cloth, he recognized the weight of the shoulders.
King Edmund Ardenfall was carried not toward a grave, but toward preparation.
A king did not go into the ground like common soldiers.
He would be washed.
Armored.
Displayed.
Honored.
Rowan's jaw tightened.
He forced himself to move.
Beyond the central wreckage, tents were already rising. Ardenfall soldiers rebuilt structure with disciplined efficiency. Supply lines reformed. Messengers rode out.
Lucien stood at the center of it.
He was not seated.
He was not crowned.
But he was giving orders, he was the one leading them all.
"Separate the wounded by severity."
"Burn Dravenholt dead before dusk."
"Secure the eastern flank — no one moves without escort."
His voice carried cleanly.
Measured.
There was no hesitation in him.
No visible fracture.
Men listened.
Rowan watched from a distance.
Lucien's armor was scorched. His shield split along one edge. But he stood straight, speaking to captains one by one as if this were another drill, not the morning after their father's death.
A king already.
Rowan turned away before the thought settled.
Near the remains of Ashborne's outer wall, a small detachment of Ardenfall guards stood in a tight formation.
At their center—
Chains.
Lysander Dravenholt sat on a low stone block, wrists bound in black iron etched with counter-sigils. Ankles secured. A collar fastened at his throat.
He did not strain against them.
He did not look up.
He simply sat.
The same pale stillness as the night before.
Rowan's steps slowed as he approached.
The guards stiffened slightly but did not interfere.
Lysander lifted his gaze.
Not defensive.
Not challenging.
Simply aware.
Rowan stopped a few paces away.
"You should be dead," Rowan said.
No one else spoke.
The chains did not rattle.
Lysander did not answer.
His expression did not shift.
Rowan felt anger rise too easily.
"My father is," he continued.
Still nothing.
The wind tugged faintly at Lysander's dark hair.
The silence pressed.
It would have been easier if he argued.
If he spat something venomous.
If he looked afraid.
Instead, he only watched.
Contained.
As he had been on the battlefield.
Rowan stepped closer.
"Say something."
Lysander's voice, when it came, was calm.
"What would you prefer?"
Rowan's hand tightened on his sword hilt.
Rage flared, but there was no tone to strike against. No mockery. No tremor.
Just fact.
"You will be executed," Rowan said.
"If your brother wills it." answered Lysander.
Not defiant.
Not pleading.
Statement.
Rowan hated that more than resistance.
Footsteps approached behind him.
"Rowan."
Lucien's voice.
Rowan did not turn immediately.
"He dies," Rowan said.
Lucien stopped at his side.
"That will be decided."
"There is nothing to decide."
"There is," Lucien replied evenly.
Rowan finally faced him.
"He stood between me and Valerius."
"He surrendered." Lucien said sternly.
"He is his son."
Lucien's gaze did not waver.
"And the only living mage capable of undoing what Valerius unleashed."
Rowan hesitated.
In the distance, a section of ground still smoldered unnaturally with black veins pulsing faintly beneath cracked earth.
The final spell had not simply killed.
It had left something behind.
Lucien lowered his voice slightly.
"Scouts report creatures forming near the western ridge. Warped by residual magic."
Rowan's jaw tightened.
"We can kill them."
"Perhaps," Lucien said. "Or perhaps we can prevent more from forming."
He looked toward Lysander.
"For now, he lives."
Rowan stared at his brother.
Lucien did not look like a man debating.
He looked like a king making calculation.
Rowan turned back to Lysander.
The prodigy met his gaze without expression.
Cold.
Contained.
As if none of this altered him.
"You do not deserve chains," Rowan said quietly. "You deserve ash."
Lysander did not react.
A beat passed.
Then—
"I did not cast the final spell," he said.
It was not defensive.
It was not emotional.
It was simple.
Rowan stepped forward sharply.
"And yet you stood aside."
"Yes."
No apology.
No explanation.
Just truth.
Rowan could not decide which angered him more.
Lucien's voice cut through the tension.
"That is enough."
Two guards stepped forward subtly.
Rowan held Lysander's gaze for a long moment.
There was something wrong about it.
Not monstrous.
Not human, either.
As if grief had never been taught to him.
Rowan turned away first.
Behind him, chains shifted softly as Lysander was led toward a guarded tent.
The field still smoked.
Priests still whispered.
Men still counted.
The war was over.
Now came judgment.