The aftermath of the battle lay heavy upon the land, a grim tableau painted in blood and ash. The metallic tang of death lingered in the air, mingling with the acrid scent of burnt wood from the shattered wagons and siege equipment. Gnoll corpses sprawled across the churned earth, their foul stench mingling with the faint coppery aroma of spilled human blood. Crows had begun to circle overhead, their sharp cries punctuating the eerie quiet left in the wake of screams and clashing steel.

Stronric stood at the heart of the carnage, his axe resting heavily on his shoulder, its haft slick with sweat and gore. Each breath came steadily despite the dull ache in his limbs, a testament to years of enduring worse. Around him, the survivors moved with grim purpose, their boots squelching in the sodden ground as they worked. Some tended to the wounded, their hands moving with the clumsy precision of the untrained. Others scavenged weapons and supplies from the dead, their faces pale and set in tight, determined lines. The perimeter was already being secured, though the occasional distant cry suggested that not all the gnolls' wounded had been found or silenced.

The sky above was a bleak canvas of gray, the first light of dawn casting long shadows across the battlefield. Stronric's gaze swept across the scene, noting every movement, every sound. To his left, a young militiaman dropped his weapon to cradle the body of a fallen comrade, his quiet sobs lost in the vast stillness. To his right, Rugiel stood a few paces away, her warhammer resting against the ground, her face pale but composed as she awaited the final tally of the dead.

Ten lives lost, ten human militia, many of whom had likely never seen a battle this big before. Fourteen others were too injured to walk, and even the survivors with minor wounds wore exhaustion and grief on their faces.

Rugiel stared at the ground, her jaw tight, but her shoulders quivered ever so slightly. Stronric, who had been watching her in silence, stepped forward, his heavy boots crunching against the blood-soaked dirt.

"It's hard to lose yer first," he said, his voice low but carrying the weight of experience. He placed a firm hand on her shoulder, his rough fingers squeezing gently. "Ye kept more alive than if ye'd done nothin'. That's all ye can do."

Rugiel didn't speak at first, her head nodding slightly, almost imperceptibly. Her hands twisted around the shaft of her hammer, betraying the tension she refused to let show. Stronric caught the glisten of unshed tears in her eyes, though her chin remained defiantly lifted.

"Ye're a good leader," Stronric said, his tone softer now. He reached out, his large hand covering her smaller ones, stilling their anxious movement. "Now ye need to get these people back in order. Tended to and fed. Just because the battle's over doesn't mean yer duties are. They need a strong leader. If ye break down, they will as well."

Rugiel's reddened face turned to Stronric, her gaze locking with his. Her lips trembled, but she drew in a steadying breath. Stronric's expression was firm but kind, his eyes holding the wisdom of someone who had walked this path many times before.

"Take a moment," he continued. "And get back in there. Ye can mourn when the men can't see ye."

Rugiel blinked, a single tear slipping down her cheek. Her lip quivered, but she clenched her jaw and gave a determined nod. Stronric could see the weight she carried, the conflict within her. He wanted to pull her into a comforting embrace, to shield her from the burden of command, but he knew that wasn't what she needed. Not now. Rugiel had to be the anvil upon which these men and women forged their strength.

With a final, steadying breath, Rugiel straightened her shoulders. She wiped her face quickly, drawing her composure back into place. Then, she stepped forward and raised her voice, firm and commanding.

"You there! Start setting up tents for the wounded! The rest of you, form groups and collect supplies from the battlefield! We'll need wood for fires and food to keep the men steady. Move quickly!"

Her words rang out, cutting through the somber stillness. The militia responded immediately, their morale buoyed by her decisive leadership. Rugiel's presence exuded the strength they needed to see, the assurance that they would endure.

Stronric stepped back, watching her take control. His chest swelled with pride, though he kept his expression stoic. The young anvil maiden was rising to the challenge, and though her heart carried the weight of loss, she had proven she could bear it. Rugiel was like a little sister to him, and seeing her shoulders weighed down by grief twisted something deep within his chest. But he held back, knowing she needed more than solace. Victory was fragile, even in its purest form. Morale could waver in the aftermath, and Stronric had seen too many times how the weight of loss could crush even the strongest will. This wasn't a Pyrrhic victory; they hadn't bled each other dry in mutual destruction. It was a decisive win. Yet, for those who had only practiced war, this first taste of its grim reality could feel unbearable.

Stronric had also seen the other extreme: lords who threw their troops into the meat grinder of war without hesitation, turning soldiers into nothing more than fodder to pave their path to power. They fed the machine with blood and bone when a sharper, tactical mind could have spared countless lives. He had long understood that the balance lay somewhere between these two extremes.

A leader too fearful of losing even a single soldier would give ground until they were driven off the cliffs they swore to defend. But a general who spent lives recklessly would find themselves victorious, yet with no one left to sow the fields or rebuild the land they had fought for. A wise leader had to navigate that line, understanding when to fight and when to hold back, knowing every loss was a cost yet still finding the strength to bear it.

The survivors trudged back toward the encampment as dawn settled over the battlefield, their steps heavy but purposeful. The forest loomed on the horizon. The silhouettes of twisted trees shrouded in brightening shadows. The militia's lines, though diminished, carried themselves with quiet resolve. Each survivor bore the weight of what they'd witnessed, yet their shoulders remained straight as they marched.

Rugiel walked near the front, her warhammer strapped to her back, its comforting weight steadying her. Though her face was composed, the lingering redness around her eyes betrayed the strain of the night. Stronric stayed a few steps behind, letting her take the lead. He knew better than to overshadow her moment of command; she needed to be seen as their anchor, their anvil, even in their retreat.

As they passed the camp's perimeter, the sight of the fires and makeshift shelters awaiting them brought a moment of relief. However, the absence of Mintra, Bauru, and Armand was felt keenly. The faster group had pursued the gnolls into the forest, and their return remained uncertain.

It wasn't long before the sound of heavy boots crunching through the dirt announced Gromli's arrival. His ladle, still streaked with dried gnoll blood, swung from his belt as he marched into camp, his broad frame unbothered by the fatigue visible on the others.

"Right, ye lazy sacks of potatoes!" Gromli's booming voice shattered the somber quiet, cutting through the camp like a war cry. "Get those fires roaring! Where's my stew pot? I want food on the tables and broth in bellies before the sun is fully up!"

The startled militia froze for a moment before scrambling into action under Gromli's loud and relentless direction. Some began hauling wood for the fires, while others brought water and supplies for cooking. Gromli strode toward the central fire pit, throwing his ladle onto a nearby table with a heavy clunk.

Stronric approached, a faint smirk on his face. "Back from the field and already barkin' orders, Gromli?"

"Aye, someone's got to whip these lads into shape, and I'll be damned if it's not me!" Gromli retorted with a grin, reaching for the cauldron hanging over the unlit campfire. "What's a victory without a proper meal, eh?"

"Victory's not complete yet," Stronric said, his tone low. "The others are still out there."

Gromli's grin faltered slightly, his brow furrowing. "Aye, Bauru, Armand, and those gnomes. You all make me worry, but they'll come back. Mark my words."

Rugiel joined them, her voice steady but tinged with concern. "The men are tired, but morale will hold if they see progress. Get the fires burning, Gromli, and make sure there's something for everyone when they return."

"Ye think I'd do less?" Gromli barked, already adding herbs and spice to the stew so the first of the hungry militia could eat. "Go on, lass, I've got this covered. Ye tend to your lot and let me handle mine."

Rugiel gave him a grateful nod before turning to oversee the rest of the camp's operations. She moved among the wounded, offering words of encouragement, while Stronric stationed himself at the edge of the camp, his watchful gaze fixed on the treeline. The fires burned brighter, and the air filled with the scent of Gromli's hearty stew as the camp settled into its daily rhythm.

The hours stretched on, each one heavier than the last as the group awaited the return of their comrades. Stronric's hand tightened on the haft of his axe, his mind wandering to Bauru and the others. He knew the ranger wouldn't abandon his duty, but the gnolls were cunning predators, and the forest was vast.

Just before midday, a distant whistle cut through the stillness, followed by the faint rustle of approaching figures. Stronric's eyes snapped toward the sound, his hand reflexively tightening around his weapon. Moments later, Bauru emerged from the treeline, his crossbow slung over his shoulder and his single eye scanning the camp.

Behind him came Armand, his armor smeared with grime, his posture upright despite his evident exhaustion. Mintra and Calmin followed, the gnomes' faces flushed with exertion, but triumphant grins plastered across their features.

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"Bauru!" Rugiel called, relief evident in her voice as she hurried toward him.

"Aye, we're back," Bauru said, his voice weary but tinged with pride. "Those gnolls won't be troublin' us again. We made sure of it."

"Zey 'ave paid dearly for zeir treachery," Armand declared, his voice resolute yet laced wiz fatigue. "Ze remnants of zeir rabble 'ave been scattered to ze winds, like chaff before ze blade. Zey shall not find ze strength to regroup, not for many moons."

Mintra waved dramatically as he climbed down from the wagon. "And you should've seen it! We turned the forest into a proper gnome's gauntlet! Traps, flasks, and bolts were flying everywhere. It was magnificent!"

Stronric stepped forward, clapping Bauru on the shoulder with a heavy hand. "Good work, lad. Glad to see ye all made it back."

Bauru grinned faintly, his eye flicking toward the campfire. "Aye, but I'll be needing some of Gromli's stew before I collapse."

Gromli's booming laugh rolled across the camp like thunder. "Ye're in luck, beardling! Stew's hot and ready! Get your ass over here before I finish it all myself!"

Bauru's eye narrowed, and he shot Gromli a mock glare. "Call me 'Beardling' again, and ye'll be wearin' this stew instead of servin' it," he growled, though the corner of his mouth twitched with amusement.

Gromli raised an eyebrow, leaning forward with a mischievous grin. "Oh, is that so, Beardling?"

The two dwarves locked eyes, the tension holding for a moment before both erupted into hearty laughter. The sound broke through the fatigue in the camp like a breath of fresh air, and others began to chuckle as well.

The returning group was welcomed with bowls of steaming stew and a chorus of cheers from the weary militia. Though their bodies bore the strain of battle, the camp's warmth and camaraderie kindled a spark of hope among them. For the first time since the fighting had ended, genuine laughter rippled through the air, mingling with the crackle of the campfires and the hearty smells of Gromli's cooking.

As the campfires crackled and the scent of Gromli's stew filled the air, the dwarves gathered near the largest tent to discuss their next move. Stronric leaned against a tree trunk, his arms crossed, his axe resting within easy reach. Rugiel sat on a sturdy log, her warhammer propped beside her, while Gromli stirred a steaming pot of stew nearby, his ladle moving almost unconsciously as he listened. Bauru crouched at the edge of the circle, Predator disassembled in his lap as he cleaned and oiled its parts with practiced efficiency.

"Millstone remains intact," Rugiel began, her tone calm and deliberate, though there was a softness beneath it. "It may not be a grand city, but it is their home. These people have given more than could ever be expected of them. Perhaps it is time to allow them to return to what remains of their lives."

Bauru grunted without looking up from his crossbow. "Aye, but sending 'em back could be sending 'em to their graves. If those gnolls regroup, Millstone won't stand long without more fight in it."

"Fight, you say? And with what, pray tell? These people are but farmers and smiths," Rugiel countered, her tone cool but pointed. "They have faced battle, true, yet that alone does not make them soldiers."

Gromli's deep voice rumbled as he tasted the stew. "True, but they've got spirit. Better than most I've seen. Spirit doesn't fix broken swords or heal wounds, though. They'll need more than guts to hold their ground."

Stronric remained silent, his gaze drifting toward the camp where the militia worked and rested. The humans showed no signs of weakness, repairing their gear and tending to the wounded with quiet determination. They were exhausted but not broken.

The crunch of boots on gravel drew their attention as two figures approached the dwarves. Duncan led the way, his broad shoulders squared and his movements steady, carrying the air of a man accustomed to both toil and hardship. In one hand, he carried a sturdy, well worn spear, its shaft slightly nicked but serviceable. His sun weathered face bore the deep lines of a seasoned farmer, etched by years spent battling against the stubborn will of the land. His eyes, a sharp and unwavering gray, spoke of quiet resolve and a weight borne not just for himself, but for others.

At his side stood Jory, his younger nephew, a striking contrast to Duncan's stoic demeanor. Jory's movements were quicker, more fluid, with the restless energy of youth barely contained beneath his rough spun tunic. He clutched his own spear, newer and less worn than Duncan's, with both hands, the way one might hold onto hope. His lean frame suggested a life not yet burdened by the harsh realities his uncle had faced, but his bright, eager eyes glimmered with determination. A lock of dark hair had slipped loose over his forehead, giving him a slightly disheveled look that only emphasized the boundless energy he seemed to radiate.

Behind them, a handful of militia members watched their approach with a quiet, unspoken trust. One of the older men, his arm bandaged from the recent battle, called after them. "You speak for all of us, Duncan. Make it count."

Duncan paused briefly, turning his head just enough to offer a small, confident nod. Jory, his grip tightening on the spear, glanced back as well, flashing a quick, reassuring grin. "We've got this. Keep the fires burning, aye?" His words carried an easy camaraderie that earned a faint chuckle from a few of the weary militia.

The two men stopped just short of the circle where the dwarves had gathered, their postures straight and their expressions resolute. Duncan inclined his head respectfully, his voice steady as he spoke. "Thane Stronric, Lady Rugiel. I'm Duncan, of Millstone. This here is my nephew, Jory. We speak on behalf of the militia."

Stronric's eyes narrowed slightly as he gestured for them to continue. "Go on, Duncan. Speak yer mind."

Duncan nodded, his voice steady. "We've talked with the others. Millstone's still standing, but we've decided none of us want to go back, not yet."

Rugiel tilted her head slightly, a hint of skepticism shadowing her elegant features. "You would abandon your homes and families to follow us? For what purpose, pray tell?"

Duncan straightened. "For the fight. For what your building. We've seen what you can do, how you lead. You've given us hope that we can be more than prey for gnolls or pawns for lords who only see coin. We want to see this through."

Jory stepped forward, his voice brimming with youthful fervor. "We're not just farmers anymore, my lady. Millstone can't just survive. We have to be strong enough to defend it. And we can't do that without learning from you all."

As Rugiel listened to Duncan and Jory's petition, her gaze drifted momentarily to the militia beyond. Days ago, they had been a rabble of frightened farmers wielding tools and scavenged blades. Now, their movements carried an unspoken rhythm, each step forward a sign of their growth. A young woman was teaching another how to mend a tear in chainmail, her hands deft and confident despite the crude tools she wielded. Across the camp, a group gathered around a battered shield, discussing how best to repair it. Rugiel's lips pressed into a thin line as the thought struck her: they had seen battle, yes, but these people were starting to resemble soldiers. Could they truly be prepared for what lay ahead?

Her eyes returned to Duncan and Jory, and for the first time since their approach, her expression softened ever so slightly.

Bauru scoffed, setting Predator aside and rising to his feet. "Learn from us, eh? Ye know what yer askin'? Dwarves like us aren't the lords of grand holds ye might've heard about in yer tales. We're outcasts, slaves in all but name. Yer kin marchin' under our banner? They'll be mocked at best, hunted at worst."

He turned his gaze to Stronric, his tone sharpening. "And they'll leave soon as the fire in their bellies cools. Humans burn bright, aye, but quick. They'll turn back to their farms or their coin before we've taken half the steps we need."

Stronric leaned forward, his expression steady, his voice carrying the weight of years. "Aye, they burn fast. But don't mistake that for weakness, Bauru. They do more in their short lives than many dwarves do in centuries. We don't need them to be dwarves, we need them to be themselves, to fight alongside us while their fire lasts. That's more than enough."

Bauru grunted, scratching at his beard. "We'll see. I'll trust 'em when they've lasted a few marches, not before."

Stronric exhaled slowly, his gaze moving over the gathered militia. "It's no small thing, what they're askin'," he said, his voice low but firm. "Humans marchin' under a dwarven banner... That'll draw eyes and not the kind that look kindly on folk like us."

Rugiel nodded slightly, her tone cool. "Indeed. It is rare for men to look upon dwarves as equals, let alone leaders. Their loyalty will be tested, and not just on the battlefield."

Bauru snorted. "And ye think those tests won't break them? Humans don't bear the weight we do, Stronric. They'll fold soon as the wind turns."

Stronric turned to him, his expression hardening. "Maybe. But if they don't? If they stand firm with us, that's somethin' the world won't forget. Dwarves like us, we're already fightin' to reclaim what was lost to show we're more than the chains they'd put us in. These humans, they're makin' their own kind of stand, whether they know it or not. If they're willin' to risk everything to fight alongside us, I'll not push them away."

His words hung in the air, heavy with unspoken meaning. The dwarves exchanged glances, the weight of their shared history pressing on them like the stone of the mountains they no longer called home.

Gromli chuckled darkly, folding his arms. "He's right. Dwarves like us aren't exactly the kind you put on a banner. You'll be branded traitors for fighting under our command. Are you certain your people understand what they're signing up for?"

Jory hesitated, glancing at Duncan, but the older man didn't flinch. "We've talked about it. Some might see it that way, aye. But we've also seen what you're capable of and what your willin' to fight for. That's worth more than what the lords of Millstone have ever done for us."

Rugiel regarded the two men closely, her tone cool but edged with skepticism. "And what, pray, will you do when your own kind looks down upon you for marching with dwarves? When they deem you fools or worse, for casting your lot with us?"

Duncan's jaw tightened. "Let them call us what they will. It doesn't change the truth: without strength, we'll always be at the mercy of others. We've found strength in fightin' beside ye."

Stronric, his voice low but commanding. "Strength isn't just a blade or a stout arm. It's knowin' the cost of fightin' and choosin' to pay it anyway. Ye've got fire in ye, Duncan, but fire fades when the world turns cold."

Duncan met Stronric's gaze evenly. "We're ready to pay the cost, Thane. We want to fight for somethin' bigger than ourselves."

The dwarves exchanged glances. Rugiel's brow furrowed as she considered the men's words, while Bauru crossed his arms, his expression skeptical. Gromli let out a low hum, watching Duncan and Jory as if weighing their souls.

Stronric turned to Rugiel. "What say ye?"

Rugiel hesitated, the weight of her role pressing heavily upon her shoulders. To lead was to bear the burdens of others, and though she carried herself with dignity, the weight of each decision left an ache that even her warhammer could not match. Were they truly ready to follow? Could she bear to see more lives lost under her banner? Pushing the doubts aside, she inclined her head with measured grace, her voice as steady as her resolve. "They have earned the right to choose their path. If they are willing to follow orders and bear their share of the burden, I shall not turn them away."

Gromli smirked. "More hands, more stew, I say. If they can keep up, let 'em stay."

Bauru scratched his beard, his one good eye narrowing. "They've got guts, I'll give 'em that. But guts don't mean nothin' without discipline. They'd better be ready to learn."

Stronric turned back to the humans, his gaze hard. "Ye'll march under our banner, then, and ye'll take the risks that come with it. The road ahead'll be harsh, and it won't care if ye're ready. Ye sure ye want to do this?"

Duncan nodded. "We're sure."

Jory grinned, his enthusiasm undimmed. "You won't regret it, Thane."

Stronric gave a faint chuckle, clapping Duncan on the shoulder. "We'll see. Rest tonight, lads. We march at dawn."

As Duncan and Jory retreated to share the news with the militia, Rugiel turned to Stronric, her voice soft but thoughtful. "You think they'll last?"

Stronric let out a deep sigh, his expression unreadable. "Time'll tell. But they've got somethin' most don't a reason to keep fightin'. That's a good start."

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