CHAPTER 147: CHAPTER 146: THE LAST DIGNITY

The battle had ended after an hour, but the forest still felt restless. Smoke curled from scorched trees, and blood soaked the dirt where bodies lay scattered, soldiers, mages, knights, all felled in a whirlwind of magic and steel. Mana lingered in the air like a ghost, flickering faintly between the ruined branches and shattered trunks.

In the middle of it all, Viscount Gantarel still stood.

He bore no weapon, made no attempt to flee. His cloak was tattered, his face dirtied with ash and blood, but his posture remained straight. Dignified. Defeated. Yet unbroken.

He knew he wouldn’t leave this forest alive.

Lumberling approached, flanked by Vaenyra, Thessalia, and Aurelya, their footsteps quiet in the aftermath, their expressions unreadable. They stopped before the old noble, who regarded them with a tired but sharp gaze.

"It’s rare to see elves in this place," the viscount said, voice gravelly but calm. "Let alone siding with someone from the Pentaline Empire."

Lumberling gave a casual shrug. "I’m lucky, I suppose. Beautiful elves choosing to stand beside me, can’t ask for more."

That earned a shared glance and a raised brow from the three elven women, though none of them replied.

"You sure are," the viscount chuckled softly, a dry, hollow sound.

Then Lumberling’s voice shifted, calmer, heavier, like a weight had settled into his chest.

"Why did you come here?"

The Viscount’s eyes remained on him, unwavering. "To find my son," he said, his voice steady, almost too composed for a man surrounded by corpses.

Lumberling nodded. "Figures. But it’s been more than a year. Why didn’t you assume he was already dead?"

The old noble let out a dry laugh. He didn’t answer.

Silence lingered.

"Were there others?" Lumberling pressed. "Anyone else who knew about this place?"

The Viscount still didn’t answer. His jaw tightened slightly, but his gaze never wavered. He simply stood tall in the wreckage, the ruin of his men behind him, defiance still burning low behind aging eyes.

"You’re already old," Lumberling said. "So I’ll offer you a painless death... if you give me the answers I need."

Still no reaction. But then, slowly, the Viscount lifted his chin and looked up at the sky, its golden light filtering softly through the bloodied leaves above.

"One of my wives," he murmured, "forced me to find him, even if it was only to bring his bones home."

There was no anger in his voice, no bitterness. Only the quiet exhaustion of a man who had long since accepted the shape of his fate.

"No one else knows. We didn’t either, not about the elves, nor the armored monsters lurking in this place. I only followed vague reports from deserters... soldiers who saw him last, fleeing north."

Lumberling watched him for a long moment. The wind carried the scent of blood and smoke. He gave a quiet nod, not of sympathy, but acknowledgment.

Then he turned to Skarn.

A silent command.

Skarn stepped forward. No words. No ceremony. Just the heavy crunch of his boots and the gleam of his twin axes catching the fading light.

The Viscount didn’t resist. Didn’t flinch.

The blade fell clean.

A thud. A breath. Silence.

For a moment, no one moved. The noble’s body lay still, his head cleanly severed. He had held onto his dignity until the end, choosing solemn grace over the shame of pleading.

But dignity could not spare a man from the truth: they were enemies. And in war, honor only softened the edge. It didn’t dull it.

.....

After the battle, the forest grew eerily still, no more clash of steel, no more screams, only the rustle of wind brushing through bloodstained leaves.

Lumberling’s subordinates began to strip the dead soldiers of their armor, greaves pulled off with wet snaps, bloodied chestplates unbuckled and tossed into piles.

Aurelya turned her face away, a frown creasing her normally serene features.

"What are they doing?" she murmured. "Ugh... that’s..."

Thessalia didn’t even blink as she watched the armor being stripped.

"They were enemies. Their purpose is spent. Their armor may yet serve someone else."

Aurelya shot her a sidelong glance.

"Still... it feels like desecration."

Vaenyra, standing nearby, folded her arms as she spoke in a calm, thoughtful tone.

"I’ve seen far worse. At least they’re treating the bodies with some respect and disposing of them properly. Looting isn’t cruelty, it’s pragmatism. The dead no longer need steel. The living do."

Lumberling overheard them, but didn’t interrupt. He approached slowly, pausing beside Aurelya.

"I won’t pretend it’s pretty," he said. "But armor’s expensive. Steel is scarce. And sentiment doesn’t patch a hole in your chest."

Aurelya didn’t reply. Her frown lingered but she said no more.

Nearby, one of the captains held up a particularly fine set of enchanted gauntlets, blood still dripping from the fingers.

Skarn grunted. "This one had good gear. Might be worth reforging."

"Strip them all," Aren added. "Burn what we don’t need."

Jen, meanwhile, had taken a few steps back from it all. She stood beside Krivex, clutching her arms.

"They’re just... taking everything," she whispered.

Krivex placed a gentle hand on her shoulder. "It is the way of survivors, young Lady. War doesn’t leave room for beauty."

Jen’s brows knit together. "But I thought we were the good ones."

Krivex didn’t answer.

...

The unit checked in. Every name answered.

Remarkably, none of Lumberling’s forces had fallen. A few bore cuts and bruises, but nothing serious. Such was the strength of those who had stepped beyond mortal limits, warriors who wielded supernatural might.

Against them, sheer numbers meant little. A hundred regular soldiers could not hope to prevail unless armed with devastating weapons or overwhelming tactics. Even then, clever tricks and formations faltered when faced with overwhelming power. Their only chance lay in attrition, wearing down their enemies through endless waves of sacrifice, trading lives for the hope of inflicting even the smallest wound.

Elven healers moved among them in quiet grace. Their hands glowed with soft emerald light, mending gashes and burns, sealing fractured bones with whispered chants. Thessalia directed them wordlessly, her mere presence enough to command.

Lumberling stood apart, arms folded, watching his people, his captains, his vice-captains, and few elites, being tended to by the elven healers. A strange warmth settled in his chest. Relief, perhaps. Or pride.

Still, a thought lingered.

’We should have healers of our own,’ he mused, eyes narrowing faintly.

Healers were rare. Most served the great churches, bound by dogma and oath. And among mages, only a precious few were born with the affinity for healing. It was a talent as scarce as it was invaluable. Elves nurtured theirs. Humans wasted them behind chapel walls.

’If we’re to endure the battles ahead... we’ll need more than just swords and magic. We’ll need healers. Our own.’

A quiet resolution formed. Something to seek. Something to build.