The valley was quiet now, too quiet for a place that had echoed with gunfire and screams only hours ago. Smoke curled gently from burning debris. The metallic scent of blood lingered like a curse. Over a hundred Abyssinians lay dead, but many more had lived, and it was on that thin, tattered thread of survival that the army leaned.
The injured were carried to the makeshift medic station, some conscious, others groaning in pain or drifting in and out of lucidity. The medics worked without rest, their hands slick with blood, their eyes red-rimmed with exhaustion. There were too many wounds, too much trauma, and not enough salves or thread to stitch it all shut.
General Mekonnen stood before his troops, the battered remains of the once-proud Abyssinian force. His uniform was torn and stained with dust, blood, and smoke, but his back was straight, and his voice thundered across the valley.
