"Three hours," she whispered. "You held them for three hours alone after the retreat signal."
He allowed himself the ghost of a smile. "Forty-four. I counted."
The Sanctum did not welcome them.
"Ara… you're bleeding again." Lyra's voice cut through the ringing in his ears. The elf knelt beside him, her fingers already glowing with faint restoration magic. "Your left side — third rib. Cracked, not broken. You'll live."
Helm's jaw tightened. Old habit. In the legion, his soldiers were numbers on a casualty sheet. Here, they had names. Stories. Children waiting. That was the difference, wasn't it? He had never feared his own death. He feared their deaths, written into his ledger. "Three hours," she whispered
"Chapter 52," he finally said. "That's what they'll call this part of the tale. 'The Rearguard's Final Stand.'"
But duty, he had long learned, was a ledger written in blood, not gold. I counted
The construct lunged.