The silence after battle was always the worst part.
I had learned that on the ridgeline, in the moments between waves, when the wounded cried out and the dead lay still and the living could not find words for what they had seen. But this silence was different. This was the silence of a village that had burned, of homes that would never be rebuilt, of people who would never come home.
I moved through it like a ghost, my hands reaching for the wounded, my light flickering, dimming, and flaring again when I found the strength to call it. The ember was barely a spark now, but it was enough. It had to be enough.
