"Boys, come over," Ludwig said, beckoning some of the allied forces.
His voice carried, but it came out rougher than he intended, scraped raw by shouting and blood and whatever the Heart of Wrath had forced through his throat.
The battlefield had quieted in the ugly way it always did after something decisive ended: not peaceful, just emptied of purpose.
Smoke from scorched grass drifted low. The air stank of iron and burnt fat and spilled bile from the Red King's gut. Even the wind felt cautious, like it didn't want to touch what had happened here.
However, none of them moved.
They stood in a loose semicircle, weapons lowered but not relaxed, eyes sliding off Ludwig the way men avoided looking at a corpse that still breathed.
Some of them were still shaking from adrenaline, others from fear, and Ludwig could tell which was which by the tightness in their shoulders and the way their fingers clenched and unclenched on grips.
