Chapter 24

Arteja stood at the edge of the village, her spear planted in the blood-soaked earth. The orange hues of the setting sun cast long shadows over the battlefield, painting the carnage in surreal light. She took a deep breath, her chest tightening as she surveyed the aftermath.

A young villager approached her, limping and clutching a broken arm. He couldn't have been older than fourteen, yet his eyes held a haunted look that belied his age. Arteja crouched beside him, tearing a strip of cloth from her sleeve to make a sling.

"What's your name?" she asked, her voice softer than usual.

"Torven," the boy whispered, wincing as she tied the sling.

"You did well today, Torven." Arteja met his gaze, her blue eyes steady. "Rest for now. You'll need your strength tomorrow."

The boy nodded, his lips trembling as he stumbled toward the village square where other survivors were gathering. Arteja watched him go, a pang of guilt flickering in her chest. She had led them to this battle, and though they had survived, the cost weighed heavily on her.

Lirael appeared at her side, her armor dented and her blade nicked from the day's fighting. "We held," she said, her voice gruff but tinged with pride.

"For now," Arteja replied, her gaze still fixed on the horizon. "But they'll come again, stronger. We can't afford to stay here much longer."

"Then we move," Corliss interjected as she limped over, leaning on a makeshift crutch. Despite her injuries, her determination was unshaken. "We regroup, find allies, and strike back."

Arteja nodded, the beginnings of a plan forming in her mind. "We'll bury the dead tonight and leave at first light. The village can't hold another attack, and these people deserve a chance to live."

As the sun dipped below the horizon, Arteja gathered the villagers and remaining guardians for a brief ceremony. They stood in silence as the bodies of their fallen were laid to rest, the weight of their losses settling heavily over the group.

That night, Arteja sat alone by the fire, sharpening her spear. The rhythmic scrape of the whetstone against the blade was the only sound, a small comfort in the quiet darkness. She thought of Torven, of the villagers who had fought so bravely, and of the enemy that loomed ever closer.

She wouldn't let their sacrifices be in vain.