Aethelgard buried its dead in the Northern Garden, a sprawling, ancient expanse enclosed by the Academy's massive outer walls. For eight hundred years, this sacred ground had served as the city's final ledger, a place where the weight of centuries of loss was physically etched into the landscape.
The trees there were giants, their gnarled roots weaving through the very foundations of the city, having grown thick and heavy through every era of tragedy. The air in the garden felt different, thicker, older, saturated with the quiet, heavy presence of the departed.
Even the light, filtering through the dense, emerald canopy, felt solemn, as if the sun itself were dimming in respect for the sheer volume of souls being returned to the earth.
There were more dead from this engagement than the garden's most recent additions had space to accommodate. The scale of the slaughter was staggering.
