"We won't," Zoran says, joining us with his bow still in hand. "But Emir's right. Our troops need rest, and we have wounded to tend to. Victory is ours—let their commanders live with their shame a little longer."
I reluctantly nod, feeling the battle-lust slowly receding. As it does, the toll of extended shadow-casting makes itself known—muscles screaming, vision blurring, exhaustion settling into my bones like lead weights.
"Sound the victory horns," I order. "Secure the field and gather our wounded."
As the horns blare across Kan Vadisi, I survey the carnage we've created. Thousands dead on both sides, the earth torn and scorched by magic, blood soaking the ground until it seems the valley has earned its name anew.
Elçin approaches, supporting a limping Banu whose left side is drenched in blood. At her side walks Nesilhan, battle-worn and pale but standing tall. Her left arm hangs in a makeshiftsling, the healers' hasty work evident in the fresh bandaging visible beneath her torn sleeve. She shouldn't be walking at all—not with a shattered shoulder—but stubbornness has always been her defining trait.
"You're supposed to be resting," I say by way of greeting.
"I got bored." She surveys the battlefield with grim satisfaction. "Besides, Banu's healing magic does wonders. I can at least stand and look appropriately victorious."
Her golden eyes take in the battlefield with a mixture of horror and grim satisfaction. Hours ago, her own father had nearly killed her before Zoran drove his blade through Taren's heart.
"Someone should check if that's actually Banu this time," I say, nodding toward the fairy. "The last shapeshifter was convincing until it tried to gut Nesilhan."
"It's me, you ass," Banu hisses, though a ghost of a smile touches her lips. "The blood is mostly someone else's."
"Mostly?" Emir is at her side instantly, concern etched across his features.
"Calm down, General," Banu rolls her eyes. "Just a flesh wound. Though your concern is touching."
Elçin snorts. "If by 'touching' you mean 'painfully obvious to everyone except you two,' then yes."
I wipe blood from my face, eyes meeting Nesilhan's across the short distance between us. She looks exhausted, drained from the battle and the trauma of watching her brother kill their father.
"You fought well today," I say quietly.
"So did you." She looks me over, one eyebrow arching. "Though you look like something that crawled out of Kara Cehennem."
"Funny. I was going for 'devastatingly handsome war hero.'"
"You missed." She closes the distance between us, reaching up to wipe a streak of blood from my cheek with her good hand. Her touch is gentle despite the carnage around us. "By a considerable margin."
"And yet you're still touching my face. Curious."
Zoran clears his throat pointedly. "Some of us are standing right here. Bleeding. In case anyone cares."
"No one does," Nesilhan and I say in unison.
"Charming. Truly." He sheathes his sword with more force than necessary. "I'll be with the healers. Trying not to vomit at your domestic bliss."
"Don't forget to have someone look at that shoulder," Nesilhan calls after him.
He waves a dismissive hand without turning back, and I watch him go—her brother, who killed their father to save her. There will be time later to deal with whatever that's done to him. For now, I have more immediate concerns.
"Come," I say, offering Nesilhan my arm. "Let's get you cleaned up before the victory celebrations. I refuse to toast our triumph while you're covered in your enemies' entrails."
"How romantic."
"I have my moments."
We make our way through the celebrating soldiers, accepting congratulations and avoiding the worst of the carnage. Victory tastes like ash and blood, but it's victory nonetheless.
The command tent looms ahead, its dark fabric a stark contrast to the bonfires being lit across the field.
"I need to debrief with the commanders," I tell Nesilhan, though what I really need is a moment to process the battle, the deaths, the cost of this win.
