The silence after the battle was worse than the fighting.
WHSSSH. Ash drifted like spectral snow between the petrified trees, settling on the bloodied armor of the dead.
The surviving warriors—holy paladins and Exo Knights alike—stood in uneasy truce, their weapons still humming with residual energy. HMMMMM.
Raihan wiped his blade clean on the grey moss, the black ichor SSSSSS sizzling where it touched the blessed steel. His breathing was steady, controlled, but his knuckles were white around the hilt. Too many of his warriors had fallen. Too many faces he'd trained since childhood, now lost to the dark.
Kain ejected a spent plasma cartridge from his rifle. CLINK. It hit the ground with a hollow ring. His Exo Knights moved with mechanical precision—CLACK-CLACK, WHIRR—checking their gear, reloading, scanning the gloom.
