The battlefield was quiet at dawn.

  Not the quiet of peace—the quiet of *emptiness*. The kind that comes after screams fade and the crows pick at what’s left. Corpses piled like broken dolls, their weapons rusting in the mud.

  And then—a twitch.

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  A gasp.

  A hand, bloodied and shaking, clawed its way free from the dead.

  Kael rolled onto his back, sucking in air like a drowning man. His ribs screamed. His vision blurred. But he was alive.

  Why?

  He wasn’t a hero. He wasn’t even a good soldier. He was the one who’d flinched in training. The one they’d shoved to the back of the ranks.

  Yet here he was. Breathing.

  And in the distance—the enemy’s torches flickered, advancing.