The battle had ended, though in name alone. The silence that settled over the battlefield was heavy, unnatural, as if the air itself mourned what had transpired. The sun dipped low behind the towering walls of the Castle of Unity, casting long, dark shadows across the once-pristine marble paths that led to Corrin’s gates. Where there had been polished stone, now there were stains of blood, deep and glistening, tracking the steps of warriors who would rise no more.

Azura stumbled forward, each step an effort of sheer will. Her legs trembled beneath her, unsteady pillars failing to bear the weight of exhaustion and pain. Every muscle ached as though she had been torn apart and stitched back together only to collapse again. She could feel her body starting to fail her—the lingering echoes of her song having sapped more than she had thought possible. The magic that had flowed so freely from her throat to aid allies, to heal the wounded, now clawed at her in its absence, leaving behind raw, aching emptiness.

The wind whispered through the shattered remnants of tents and broken banners, carrying the faint, metallic tang of blood and the acrid smoke of scorched earth. Azura’s fingers brushed against the stones of the path, slick and cold, grounding her for a fleeting moment, before the pain pressed forward again. She staggered onward, reaching desperately toward the grand staircase that led to the palace, though it seemed miles away. Each step threatened to buckle beneath her weight, and the world itself began to tilt, a carousel of shadow and light spinning in cruel mockery.

Her vision blurred. Faces she knew—friends, allies—flashed in and out, silent screams frozen in their final moments. The echoes of her voice lingered, fading into the emptiness, useless now. She had sung with everything she had, and yet the result had not felt enough. The wounded still lay, some stirring weakly, others not at all, their breaths shallow, their bodies trembling. Azura’s chest tightened, her ribs a cage constricting with grief and despair.

Her throat burned—not just from the overuse of her voice, but from the weight of everything she could not fix. She had been the beacon, the voice to guide and heal, and yet she could not save all. Could not stop the inevitability of death and loss that had seeped so thoroughly into this night. The palace stairs loomed before her like a final, unreachable summit, the marble gleaming faintly in the dying sunlight, yet all it promised was distance, not safety.

Azura’s knees threatened to buckle. The world tilted, slow and agonizing, as if gravity itself conspired to remind her of her helplessness. Tears blurred the edges of her vision—not from pride, nor anger, but from the helplessness that had become suffocating. She reached out, hand trembling, fingertips grazing the first step. The touch was cold, unyielding, and yet a tether to the small fragment of hope that remained.

And still, the battlefield lingered behind her. Blood, sweat, the cries of the wounded and the dead—all fused into a singular, haunting chorus that no song could drown out. Her body wished hopelessly to give out entirely, but she drew a shaky breath, tasting copper and salt, and whispered a vow only she could hear:

“No, no, I.. I will not falter. I cannot.”

Even here, in the shadow of despair, she would find the strength to rise. She would not rest until she found the hand of her knight; the one she had been torn from in battle.