The packhouse smells different after the battle, and it takes me longer than it should to realize why, because my senses are still lagging behind my thoughts, catching up in uneven waves that leave me feeling slightly out of step with my own body. Blood has been cleaned from the floors, smoke aired out through shattered windows and forced ventilation, and yet there is a heavier undertone in the air now, something like iron and ash and memory, the kind of scent that does not fade just because the surfaces look orderly again.
I move through the corridors slowly, not because I am injured badly enough to justify it, but because my limbs feel disconnected, as if my brain is issuing commands on a delay. Every step feels deliberate in a way that makes even walking seem like a task that requires
