The war had ended, but Aya's mind had not yet learned how to leave the battlefield. It had been that way years ago; it's still that way now.
She found herself measuring every silence as if it concealed movement, every calm report as if it were missing a line that mattered. Victory had not brought relief so much as a different kind of vigilance - one that lived behind her ribs, quiet and constant. She no longer listened for the clash of steel or the call of horns, but for hesitation in a messenger's voice, for omissions in numbers, for the subtle signs that peace might only be a pause.
Around her, the war chamber had begun to feel different.
Not quieter - never quiet - but steadier. Maps were no longer dragged across the table with bloodied hands. Reports no longer arrived damp with rain and panic. Ink dried where it was meant to dry. Candles burned without being replaced mid-sentence.
Peace, or something that resembled it, had begun to settle over Athax.
