The wave receded like a tide pulling back from a shore, leaving behind a battlefield strewn with bodies and blood and the shattered remnants of what had been a shield wall. The monsters did not retreat—they never truly retreated—but they fell back, regrouping, gathering their strength for the next assault. The warriors of the North used that time as they always had: to tend their wounds, to catch their breath, to prepare for what was coming.
I moved through the aftermath like a ghost, my hands reaching for the wounded, my light flaring to seal wounds and ease pain. There was no thought in it, no conscious decision to heal rather than fight. The ember guided me, responding to the need around me and reaching out to those who could not reach for themselves.
