The sun rose without hurry the next day.
The light came through the gaps in the windows, rested on the white sheets that covered the dead, reflected in the puddles of water that the night had left in the courtyard. The smell of smoke and blood still hung in the air, but the wind blew from the northwest, bringing the scent of pine and wet earth.
I was sitting on a stone bench, leaning against the wall of the east wing. The dark‑haired boy – his name was Miro, I had found out during the night – slept beside me, his head on my shoulder, his hand clenched in my tunic. I did not let him go. He did not let me go either.
"You didn't sleep," said Zirinos, appearing from the direction of the wall.
"No."
"Neither did I."
He sat on the ground, his back against the stone, his legs stretched out. His gold‑and‑blood hair was dishevelled, stained with ash. His tunic was marked with blood that was not his own.
"Andy spoke to you," he said. It was not a question.
"He did."
"And he told you what he saw?"
"He did."
Zirinos did not defend himself. He did not deny it. He just looked at the sky, where the clouds were beginning to part, revealing a pale blue.
"It had to be done," he said. "She was going to die anyway. The wound was severe. She would have suffered for hours, maybe days. I sped up the process."
"You killed her."
"I killed her." He turned his head to me. "And you killed too. Yesterday. Many."
"It wasn't the same."
"It was. The difference is that you killed strangers. I killed someone I knew."
"Doesn't that give you remorse?"
"It does." His eyes were dark, tired. "But not enough to stop."
Miro stirred in his sleep, tightened his hand on my tunic, murmured something I did not understand. I touched his hair. He calmed down.
"Will you tell?" asked Zirinos.
"I have nothing to tell. I saw a soldier kill a teacher. The soldier was defending himself. Or not. It doesn't matter."
"It doesn't matter?"
"What matters is who stays." I looked at him. "And you stayed."
Zirinos did not reply. He just looked away.
---
The funerals began at noon.
The students' bodies were burned on a pyre raised on the battlefield, in the same place where the corrupted had burned the day before. The ashes mixed. No one said anything. There were no words.
Irina spoke of courage, honour, memory. The words were beautiful but empty. Those who wept did not weep for the words. They wept for the faces they would no longer see.
Andy stood beside Irina, his hands behind his back, his face like stone. He did not speak. It was not necessary. His presence was the speech.
The students dispersed after the ceremony. Some went to their rooms to sleep. Others to the yards to train. Others simply wandered the corridors, looking for something to make them forget.
I took Miro to the dining hall.
We ate bread with honey and drank milk. He did not speak. I did not either. At one point, he pointed to the window.
"Look," he said.
I looked. It was a blue butterfly, one of those that lived in the academy gardens. It had landed on the windowsill, its wings open, shining in the sun.
"It's beautiful," he said.
"It is."
"My mother liked butterflies."
"Where is your mother?"
He did not answer. He just kept looking at the butterfly.
I did not ask further.
---
At the end of the day, the knights of Ban arrived.
Torvin, Kael and Hedrik. They came on foot, their horses lost. Their leather armour was torn, their faces dirty with blood and earth. Torvin dragged his left leg. Kael had his right arm in a makeshift sling. Hedrik, the silent one, held what remained of his sword – a third of a blade, the rest lost somewhere on the road.
Andy received them in the courtyard.
"Torvin."
"Duke." The man knelt, with effort. "We arrived late."
"You arrived. That's what matters."
"Trussum…"
"We know." Andy helped him to his feet. "Rest. Eat. Then tell me everything."
Torvin nodded. The three knights followed a servant to the guest wing.
I looked at them. At their dragging legs, their broken arms, their empty eyes.
'They survived', I thought. 'I don't know how. But they survived.'
Miro, beside me, squeezed my hand.
"Are we leaving?" he asked.
"We are."
---
Night fell early.
The rooms were silent. The dead no longer occupied beds. The survivors slept, or pretended to sleep.
I lay in bed, my eyes open in the dark. Miro slept beside me, his dark hair spread on the pillow, his hand clenched in my tunic. I did not let him go. He did not let me go either.
I thought about what Andy had told me. Zirinos had killed Mára Ferão. Not in self‑defence. Not out of mercy. Just because. Or because not.
'Why not?', I thought.
'And why do I care?'
The answer did not come. Neither did sleep.
Outside, the moon shone.
END OF THE SIEGE ARC - Next will be Zirinos