The silence after Invidia's retreat was thick, pressing down on the crater like a suffocating blanket. The wind, no longer wild with the fury of battle, whispered weakly over the scorched earth. Dawn's pale light crept over the crater's edge, painting the destruction in soft gold—uncaring, impartial.
Arthur flickered like a dying candle, his form barely solid. He felt hollow, scraped raw from within by the power he'd unleashed. Every breath was an effort.
Beside him, Lusica knelt, his breathing steady. The golden sword of his reforged oath stood planted in the dirt, its light dim but unbroken.
And he was smiling.
Not the sharp grin of victory. Not the bright laughter of joy.
It was the quiet, fragile smile of a man who had forgotten what his own happiness looked like. The expression of a prisoner stepping into sunlight after decades in the dark. More painful than any shout of triumph.
Arthur's voice was a ragged whisper. "First time I've seen you do that."
