He opened his mouth to speak, but before any words could leave, a voice cut through the air deep, solemn, and impossible to place.

It echoed from the jagged slopes, carrying over the snow-dusted mountains and into the ruins of the battlefield. The sound seemed to come from everywhere at once, seeping through the cracked stones and broken banners that still clung to the wind.

"All the mages who are still alive and able to walk," the voice called, "please gather at the war preparation ground."

Ren lifted his head, the wind tugging at his torn cloak. Around him, the surviving mages stirred, their eyes heavy, their movements slow, as though each step pressed against the weight of what they had seen.

"We have observed silence for all the brave mages who have been martyred," the voice continued. The words rolled through the mountains like distant thunder, brushing against the shattered watchtowers and the scorched soil where the battle had burned itself out.

"Please come. You will not be able to see them after that."

A sharp breath left Elara's lips, her hands curling at her sides. Beside her, Seroi's expression hardened, though his gaze remained fixed on the distant ridge where the sun was sinking behind peaks blackened by fire and smoke.

"I know these words are very bitter and heartbreaking," the voice went on, "but we cannot change destiny."

The cold wind carried the scent of ash and iron. Ren's jaw clenched.

"But we will always stand with each other in this maze of destiny. Even after our death."

A few steps away, a mage knelt in the snow, his trembling fingers tracing the engraved nameplate of a fallen comrade. Others stared down at the ground, shoulders hunched beneath the weight of their grief.

"After this silence," the voice concluded, "their bodies will be handed over to their families."

The words faded into the wind, leaving behind only the muffled crunch of boots as survivors began to make their way toward the preparation ground.

Sounds of footsteps echoed across the stone paths, carrying through the mountain valley where Arkenhall stood. The entire basin seemed to breathe with the weight of the survivors.

Those who had been spared serious harm arrived first, their boots crunching against frost and ash. The injured came next, leaning against friends or carried on makeshift stretchers. Some dragged themselves forward despite missing limbs a leg gone at the knee, an arm ending in bandaged cloth already stained through. Their faces were pale, but their eyes refused to turn away.

They gathered on the vast preparation ground, the cold air thick with the smell of smoke and steel. In the center lay the fallen row upon row of lifeless forms, each wrapped in cloth but still marked by the shapes of the armor they once wore.

A sudden flash of gold broke the dim light. In the center circle, a teleportation sigil flared, runes burning briefly on the stone before fading. Elara, Seroi, and Ren stepped out, the afterglow of the magic still clinging to their outlines.

The circle's light reflected in the polished armor of the counselling members who stood nearby. They had arrived earlier, their robes heavy with formal insignia, faces drawn with the gravity of the moment.

Ervin's hands were clasped behind his back, jaw set in unspoken restraint. Frein's eyes lingered on the bodies, his shoulders rising and falling in slow, measured breaths. Vea's gaze was lowered, as though she could not bear to meet the eyes of the living. Svea's fingers clutched the edge of her cloak, knuckles pale. Borun, Leith, Selnar, Naheral, Lark all stood in silence, their shadows long under the dying light of the sun.

Around them, no one spoke. The survivors' eyes shifted between the bodies, the mountains beyond, and the grey sky overhead, as if searching for an answer that would never come.

Elara, Seroi, Vael and Ren stepped into the circle and joined that silence. They stood neither before nor behind the counselling members, but among them as equals in grief. The wind moved through the valley, lifting cloaks and hair, carrying with it the faint metallic scent of blood that no magic could entirely cleanse.

No one broke the stillness. The valley itself seemed to bow its head.

No one moved. The only sounds were the distant flutter of banners in the cold wind and the faint crackle of braziers at the edges of the ground. Breath steamed in the air, heavy and slow. The smell of iron and ash lingered, mixing with the faint fragrance of incense drifting from the priests' censers.

A crow landed on one of the wooden poles, its wings beating once before it went still, black eyes glinting at the sight below. Rows of shrouded bodies lay in perfect lines, their forms barely rising beneath the white cloth.

Then Ervin finally stepped forward. The voice of his boots, his steps echoed throughout the ground as he reached the center. He looked over the dead with eyes that held no tears left to give. His gloved hand lingered on the hilt of his sword, knuckles white.

When he spoke, his voice was low at first, almost swallowed by the wind, before it carried across the ground.

"They… waited for us to speak to them one last time."

The silence cracked. Some lowered their heads. Others closed their eyes. The weight of his words sank into the hearts of all who stood there. And slowly, the farewell began.

After his words. He stopped spoked. He only said a few words. Then he raised his hands pointed towards the sky. In his hand one sword appeared. Golden sword. The light particles surrounded that sword. So many symbols carved in that sword. They all looked towards that sword. That sword's sharp edge was pointed towards the sky. All understood that the time came, the counselors stepped forward. The bells of Arkenhall were struck three times, its deep tone rolling over the valley like a wave. The sound stirred the gathered crowd, but no one spoke.

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