From Nolan's distant vantage point—high above the battlefield, interface window open like a canvas of moving life—he watched it all unfold in silence.
The sounds had died down. The fog of bloodlust had begun to settle. Yet, Nolan could see it—clearer than anyone else. The tension was far from gone. It clung to the trees. It hid in the mist. It waited, quiet and patient, beneath every footstep.
Then, one of the attendants stepped out from the carriage. A young man, face speckled with dust and dried blood, eyes sharp and voice calm despite the chaos that had just ended.
"Sir Varros," he called.
