Night did not cleanse Dry Bone Valley.
It only revealed what remained.
The fires came first.
Great pyres rose from the blood-soaked ground, their flames clawing upward, devouring flesh and memory alike. The dead were given to the fire without ceremony—no prayers, no names spoken aloud.
Only silence.
Only the crackle of burning bodies.
Only the sound of breathing—heavy, uneven, alive.
The valley glowed like a wound that refused to close.
Smoke, blood, charred meat—it all mixed into something thick and suffocating. The air itself felt tainted, as though it had learned the taste of death and would not forget it.
The slaughter was over.
The work had just begun.
They moved among the corpses.
Efficient.
Unfeeling.
Hands stripped armor from cooling bodies, pried weapons from stiff fingers, dragged the useful from the ruined. No one hesitated. No one looked twice at the faces of the dead.
There was no hatred left.
Only hunger.
Anna approached.
Blood had dried across her cheek, cracking faintly as she spoke.
"Report complete."
Her voice was steady—too steady.
"Thirty-one dead. Seven crippled. Thirty more wounded."
A pause.
"The enemy—none escaped."
Colin nodded once.
Expected.
Accepted.
He handed her the potions without ceremony.
"Dilute. Give to the worst first."
No comfort.
No praise.
Only continuation.
Then—
"The spoils?"
Anna's eyes changed.
Not softer.
Brighter.
She pointed.
Metal gleamed in the firelight—piled high, cold and silent. Armor stripped from the fallen, weapons gathered, shields stacked like bones.
"Sixty-five intact sets. Three hundred more salvageable."
Her breath quickened.
"Enough to remake us."
Then the horses.
They were restless.
Alive.
Angry.
"Forty-seven captured," she said. "Most usable."
Colin looked at them.
Not as animals.
As momentum.
As impact.
As the next step.
He walked.
Each step crushed dried blood into dust beneath his boots.
At the top of the pile—
the armor waited.
Silver.
Stained.
Alfred's.
Colin touched it.
Slowly.
Tracing the grooves, the craftsmanship, the weight of something made for power—and lost.
The blood had darkened.
Set into the metal like a memory that would not fade.
"Hask."
"Here."
"Put it on."
No hesitation.
The armor resisted.
It was not made for him.
Human shape. Human expectation.
But they forced it.
Pulled.
Pressed.
Locked.
Metal screamed softly as it settled into place.
Piece by piece.
Layer by layer.
Until—
nothing remained of flesh.
Only steel.
The helmet lowered.
Darkness narrowed to a slit.
And behind it—
eyes.
Blue.
Burning.
The camp fell silent.
They saw him.
Not as he had been.
Not as what he was.
Something else.
A creature wrapped in stolen nobility.
A king forged from carrion and conquest.
Even Hask stepped back.
Just a fraction.
Colin moved.
The armor answered.
Heavy.
Restrictive.
Powerful.
Acceptable.
"Distribute the rest."
His voice echoed from within the steel.
Deeper.
Distant.
Fanaticism answered him.
The wounded were treated.
The horses healed—unnaturally fast, their flesh knitting under unnatural aid.
Nothing would be wasted.
Nothing allowed to fail.
Then—
the transformation began.
Weapons changed hands.
Armor replaced skin.
The army shed its past.
And in the middle of it—
something strange emerged.
Laughter.
A young Bearman slammed his chest, chainmail ringing like a bell.
"Hit me!"
Another obliged.
The axe struck.
Metal held.
The Bearman grinned like a child discovering violence anew.
Elsewhere—
chaos.
Hask met his enemy.
A horse.
The beast snorted, eyes wide, refusing him.
"Stand still," Hask growled.
It didn't.
He lunged.
Missed.
Grabbed.
Was thrown.
Hard.
Laughter erupted around him.
Raw. Unrestrained.
Alive.
"Again," he snarled.
Others fared no better.
Some were kicked.
Some dragged.
Some clung desperately as the horses bolted, turning the camp into a storm of motion and curses.
It was absurd.
Violent.
Human.
And then—
Colin stepped forward.
The noise faded.
Not forced.
Instinctive.
He approached the black warhorse.
Slow.
Measured.
The beast tensed—
then stilled.
Something recognized something.
Colin did not grab.
Did not force.
He waited.
The horse breathed.
Lowered its head.
Contact.
Then—
movement.
He mounted in one smooth motion.
No struggle.
No resistance.
The horse obeyed.
Silence spread.
They watched.
Understood.
Or tried to.
"You don't break them," Colin said quietly.
"You replace what they follow."
The lesson settled deeper than words.
He dismounted.
Handed the reins away.
"Learn."
This time—
no one laughed.
Later, alone, he stood by the fire.
The armor reflected the flames.
Alive with them.
Inside—
stillness.
[Kill Points: 331]
Enough.
Not yet everything.
The wind shifted.
The banner behind him snapped sharply—a torn noble crest, remade into something else.
A wolf.
Maw open.
Unyielding.
It did not represent what they were.
It declared what they would become.
And the night—
did not argue.