The enemy withdrew quickly after the battle.
No horns. No challenge shouted back across the field. Just a slow, uneven retreat as men dragged the wounded and left the dead where they fell, the western banners dipping and vanishing into the rise beyond the pass.
Killan did not watch them go.
He turned inward, riding the line while the ground still steamed with heat and blood. Orders came from him quietly, without flourish. Wounded first - those who could walk sent back in pairs, those who could not lifted onto shields or wagons. Fresh troops rotated forward to replace the exhausted, boots finding their places among churned earth and broken spear shafts.
No praise. No speeches.
The men did not need it. Their breathing said enough.
