The three stood in silence, watching as the soldiers continued their grim task of gathering bodies and weapons from the battlefield. The sun had begun its slow descent, casting long shadows over the blood-soaked ground. A short while later, the girl stepped forward to help, her golden eyes dim with sorrow, but Xayn remained rooted in place, his mind too preoccupied to be bothered to act.

Time passed in an agonizing crawl. An hour, perhaps two. The soldiers worked tirelessly, collecting the broken remains of their comrades, stacking them into a massive pile at the base of the city walls. Limbs, torsos, shattered armor—it was impossible to tell where one body ended and another began. A grotesque monument to the brutal cost of battle.

The commander finished his hushed conversation with a soldier who had approached him, then turned to face the gathered troops. Hundreds stood before him, their bodies battered, their faces weary and streaked with grief as they didn't care about how they were packed together tightly on such a small wall.

Some clutched at wounds that still bled sluggishly, while others barely remained upright, their injuries too severe for them to fight again. And then there were those whose spirits seemed even more broken than their bodies—eyes glazed over, filled with an unbearable weight of loss and despair.

The commander sighed deeply before beginning to speak, his voice low but firm enough to carry over the hushed murmurs.

"Today... was a terrible day for all of us. I do not think there are words that can fully describe the sorrow that weighs on our hearts. Many of you have lost friends. Some have lost family. Others, neighbors. We stand here now, breathing, while they lie before us, never to rise again. It is a cruel and painful reality. I know that ache well, the way it claws at your throat, the exhaustion that makes every movement feel like a burden."

His gaze swept over them, his expression unreadable yet heavy with unspoken grief.

"Despite how I may appear, do not mistake me for a man who does not understand your suffering. I have stood where you stand now, many times over. I have watched my own comrades fall beside me, knowing that I could do nothing to stop it. And every time, I have wished for a way to take that pain from you, to make it easier, to fix what has been lost. But I am no miracle worker. I am simply a soldier—a man who knows how to wield a sword and lead others to do the same. I cannot bring them back, nor can I erase the pain you feel. I wish I could."

A heavy silence settled over the crowd, broken only by the distant wails of the wind. Some soldiers clenched their fists, others lowered their heads, their grief raw and visible.

"I know some of you wish to take your loved ones, your friends, and give them the burial they deserve. That is what any of us would want. But we do not have the luxury of time, nor the safety to do so. The enemy will not grant us the chance to grieve. We must be prepared for when they return. That is why we must set a pyre."

A ripple of discomfort coursed through the gathered soldiers. Some shifted uncomfortably, their lips pressed into tight lines. The idea of burning their fallen instead of laying them to rest in the earth they once walked was bitter, painful. But the commander stood firm.

"I do not say this lightly. I do not say this because I wish to discard them as if they were nothing. They were our comrades, our family. They fought beside us, bled beside us, and we will honor them in the only way we can. We will not let them rot in the open air, nor will we leave them for the beasts to desecrate. They will be sent off with the fire, with the sky bearing witness to their sacrifice. And though it is not the burial they deserve, it is the farewell we are able to give."

The weight of his words pressed down on the crowd. Many looked as though they wanted to argue, to cry out in protest, but none spoke. The commander did not expect silence—he had seen men rage, wail, curse the gods in moments like these. He did not seek to smother their pain but to let them feel it, acknowledge it, and understand that he, too, carried it.

After a long pause, one soldier—a man missing an eye and an arm, his face streaked with dirt and dried blood—stepped forward. His voice was hoarse when he spoke.

"...Then let us send them off properly. Let us build the pyre and give them the flames they deserve."

The commander nodded solemnly, and slowly, the others followed. Some murmured prayers, others whispered the names of the fallen. But none refused. The pyre would be built, and with it, they would say their last goodbyes.

Xayn watched as the soldiers scurried back and forth across the bridge, carrying wood and other materials to construct the funeral pyre. Despite his initial indifference, he couldn't help but feel slightly out of place, standing idly while the others worked. He told himself he had no obligation to assist them; after all, he didn't belong to this world, nor did he owe these people anything. Yet, as his eyes drifted over the solemn faces of those around him—teenagers even younger than himself hauling wood with blank expressions—something within him stirred. He clenched his jaw, cursing himself inwardly.

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"Tch. What a pushover," he muttered under his breath before finally stepping forward to lend a hand.

The work was strenuous but straightforward. The pyre steadily took form, growing larger as more hands contributed to its completion. Xayn kept to himself, stacking the wood and avoiding unnecessary interaction. He could feel the heaviness in the air, the unspoken grief pressing down on the gathered warriors. When the final piece was set in place, everyone stepped back, and all eyes turned to the commander, who stood before the towering mound of bodies and kindling, a torch in hand.

Before he could proceed, a small figure emerged from the crowd—a young girl, much smaller in frame than the golden-eyed archer from earlier. She clutched a bow tightly in her small hands, her left eye concealed beneath a hastily wrapped bandage, while unshed tears glistened in her remaining eye. The commander regarded her with quiet patience, waiting as she stepped forward.

"Why?" she asked, her voice strained but clear.

The commander's brows furrowed slightly in response. He had expected many things, but not for this girl, of all people, to be the one to ask. He didn't answer immediately, instead allowing her the space to continue.

"Why did they attack us?" Her voice cracked as she pressed forward. "We lived peacefully in the city. My mother was supposed to teach me tailoring. My sister and I were supposed to run the shop together." She gripped her bow tighter, her knuckles white. "Now they're both dead, and I... I couldn't even find my mother's hands in that pile."

A ripple passed through the gathered soldiers. Others, emboldened by the girl's raw grief, began to step forward, their voices layering upon each other like a growing storm.

"My son was in the barracks that fell first. I never even saw his body."

"We had a farm outside the city. My parents and brothers were there. If they attacked us here, then..."

"My wife and I just had our first child! I should have been with them! Why are we fighting instead of running?"

"My lover just proposed to me yet I can't even find his body."

The murmurs of sorrow gave way to whispers of frustration, then to words laced with anger. The air became thick with tension, the soldiers' faces shifting from grief to resentment. The commander remained still, his expression unreadable as he took in the sea of expectant, wounded souls before him. His grip tightened around the torch in his hand, but for now, he kept his silence.

The commander lifted his head and gazed upon the gathered soldiers, his expression unreadable. The tension in the air was palpable, every eye upon him, waiting for answers. When he finally spoke, his voice was steady but carried a weight of resignation.

"Running would have been worse for us than any of you might think."

A murmur of confusion passed through the soldiers, but the commander wasted no time and continued, his tone leaving no room for doubt.

"Months ago, the Castellan made a deal with a powerful abomination warlord. What the deal entailed, I do not know, but I do know this—the castellan was supposed to pay a significant price for whatever bargain he struck. When the time came, he refused."

The commander continued, his voice dark. "The warlord, furious over this betrayal, declared that if he did not receive his payment, he would lay waste to all who stood in his path. And so he did. You all saw it with your own eyes. You have fought against the abominations he leads."

Still, the weight of his words did not fully register in their minds. A few soldiers shook their heads as if to deny it, but the commander did not stop.

"A week ago, the castellan vanished. No one in the castle knew what happened to him, but one thing was certain—without him, we were doomed. The officials tried to reason with the warlord, offering everything they could muster. None of it was enough. It wanted its payment, and it wanted it in full. And when it did not receive it, it decided that we would all pay the price instead."

A stunned silence settled over the crowd, eyes widening in disbelief. Xayn, watching from the back, felt his mind struggling to process the words. He had expected something sinister, but this? This was utterly stupid.

Xayn couldn't hold back his thoughts any longer. "Wait a damn minute, are you telling me none of you put it together? Isn't it obvious? That bastard ran away after getting what he wanted! He abandoned you all! So why are you still here, fighting and not escaping?"

The commander's gaze snapped to Xayn, and for a moment, he was silent, as if considering the words carefully. Then, with a tired sigh, he answered.

"It is not that simple. The warlord... it has a way of marking those who have lived in this city. Every man, woman, and child who has spent even a single night within these walls is now marked. No matter where they run, it will find them." He looked out at the sea of horrified expressions. "We learned this the hard way. We sent scouts to call for aid from nearby cities, only for their corpses to be dragged back by beasts—mutilated, disfigured, left as a warning. There is no escape. There is no safe haven. We are already dead in the warlord's eyes."

The soldiers stood in stunned silence. Some trembled. Others clutched their weapons, their knuckles white. A few whispered prayers to gods who had long since abandoned them.

The commander exhaled deeply, his voice heavy with guilt. "When the other officials learned this, they tried to flee as well. They all died. My second-in-command and I are the only ones left among those who knew. I kept this from you all, not because I wanted to deceive you, but because if I had told you earlier, you wouldn't have fought. You would have fallen into despair. I made a decision... a foolish one, perhaps, but it was the only path I saw. And now, I stand before you, knowing full well that you have every reason to hate me for it."

He straightened, inhaled deeply, then bowed deeply before them all.

"I will accept your anger. I will not make excuses. If you wish to curse me, do so. If you wish to strike me down, I will not resist. But I did what I thought was necessary to keep you alive by giving us a fighting chance."

The wind carried his words into the silence that followed, the firelight casting long shadows on the faces of those gathered. Their grief, their fury, their helplessness—all of it mixed into the tense air. And yet, no one moved. No one spoke. They could only stare at the man who had just shattered the last of their hopes.