The morning sun rose like a triumphant banner over the blackened plains, casting long golden rays over a field choked with the dead. Smoke drifted lazily into the pale sky from the gutted skeleton of the rebel camp, its charred timbers jutting up like accusing fingers toward the heavens.
Alpheo's men moved through the battlefield like ants over a fallen feast. Bodies lay in every direction: some contorted in the last spasms of death, others peacefully still, their expressions strangely calm as if dreaming of better ends. Soldiers stepped around them with practiced disinterest, eyes scanning for glints of metal, buckles, clasps—anything valuable.
Steel boot tips nudged open stiff fingers. Gloved hands patted tunics and jerkins, probing for hidden purses or tucked-away medallions. Now and then, a body was rolled over with a grunt and a squelch, the ground still damp from spilled blood and churned earth.
"You find anything good?" one soldier muttered, crouching over a rebel
