The stars were bright that night, brighter than I had ever seen them. They scattered across the sky like diamonds on black velvet, cold and distant and utterly indifferent to the lives that had been lost beneath them. A thin crescent moon hung low over the mountains, casting pale silver light across the frozen plain where the battle had taken place.
I sat on the battlements of Frosthold, my legs dangling over the edge, my hands resting on the cold stone. The wind was sharp, cutting through my leathers, raising goosebumps on my skin. But I did not move to find shelter. The cold was a comfort, a reminder that I was still alive, still breathing, still here.
The fortress was quiet behind me. The wounded had been tended, the dead had been counted, the survivors had been given food and blankets and places to rest. The great hall was dark, the fires banked, the voices silenced. For the first time in days, Frosthold was at peace.
