The sun had climbed above the mountains by the time we were ready to leave. Its light was pale and weak, filtered through the smoke that still hung over the village, but it was light. After the long darkness of the battle, after the hours of fighting and fire and death, the light felt like a promise.
The villagers gathered in the square, their faces pale with exhaustion, their hands clutching what few possessions they had managed to save. There were perhaps a hundred of them, maybe more—men and women and children who had survived the night, who had fought and wept and held each other as their homes burned. They stood in silence, waiting, watching.
I stood at the edge of the square, my body aching, my hands still faintly glowing with the last remnants of healing light. The ember in my chest was a spark, barely there, but it was enough. It had to be enough.
