The aftermath of battle never feels victorious in the way stories promise.
It is quieter than the fighting, heavier somehow, filled with sounds that sink under the skin instead of crashing against it, the scrape of boots against bloodstained stone, the murmur of voices carrying names and injuries and orders, the low hum of grief braided through relief. The courtyard looks wrong in daylight, smeared with proof that violence happened here, that choices were made and paid for, and as the pack moves through the wreckage with grim efficiency, I stand still for a moment and let myself feel the weight of it settle.
We won.
That truth is solid and undeniable, but it does not erase what it cost.
Adam is everywhere at once, or at least it feels that way, moving from group to group, checking inju
