The dawn after the battle came quietly.

No trumpets, no celebration—only the soft cry of crows circling above the field and the slow, sorrowful rhythm of footsteps in the frost. The once-proud plains of Silvercrest were scarred now—charred earth, broken weapons, and the lingering scent of blood clinging to the cold morning air.

Evelyn stood at the edge of the battlefield, her cloak brushing the frozen ground. The crimson glow of the Blood Moon had finally faded, replaced by a pale, ...