War does not end in a single moment.
It thins. Like smoke lifting from a field that no longer burns.
The Western army fractured within hours of Prince Maric's death and the Crown Prince's disappearance. Without his command structure holding it together, the retreat turned to collapse. Surrender followed where resistance failed.
Killan oversaw disarmament personally. He did not delegate it.
He stood at the mouth of the valley where Western soldiers were being processed in controlled waves, Frost Fire forming a barrier against them and his Queen, who was standing not too far away. The dead, including Prince Maric, had already been pulled aside and laid properly where the Western delegates may claim them afterward. The wounded were separated. Water was being distributed under supervision.
No chaos. No revenge killings. No triumphant jeering.
Killan had forbidden it.
