The training yard was empty when I arrived.
The sun had not yet cleared the mountains, and the grey light of early morning cast long shadows across the packed earth. The practice dummies stood in their usual places, scarred and battered from months of use. The weapon racks were full, the swords and axes and spears waiting for hands that were too weary to lift them.
I had not planned to come here. My body was screaming for rest, my muscles aching, my hands still trembling with exhaustion. The ember in my chest was dark, a memory of what it had been. I had nothing left to give.
But I could not rest. Every time I closed my eyes, I saw their faces. The child who had died in my arms. The old man who had asked about his grandson. The woman with the hammer, who had fought beside me in the square. They were gone, and I was here, and I did not know how to carry the weight of their absence.
