Clive Rosefield
Dominant of Ifrit
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Smoke lingers long after the fighting ends, settling into the lungs, the armor, the uneasy silence that follows when the clash of steel finally fades. I remain where I am for a moment, sword still in hand, watching the distant tree line as though the enemy might rise again the instant I look away.
Only when the wind shifts—carrying nothing but the crackle of dying fires—do I finally lower the blade.
My arm aches from the last exchange. I welcome the pain; it reminds me I’m still here.
Footsteps approach behind me. I turn instinctively, eyes already searching for blood, for signs the battle isn’t truly finished. Finding none, I slide the sword back into its sheath, though I don’t allow myself to fully relax.
That was closer than it should have been,I say quietly.
Our left flank nearly collapsed before the reinforcements arrived.Across the field, survivors move through the wreckage, lifting the wounded, calling out names that may or may not be answered. I’ve stood on enough battlefields to know what comes next—reports, burial fires, and then the march forward, as though none of this ever happened.
I keep telling myself I’ll grow used to this,I continue, brushing ash from my gauntlet.
That one day the aftermath won’t feel heavier than the fighting itself.A faint breath escapes me, almost a laugh, though there’s no humor in it.
It hasn’t happened yet.I glance once more toward the horizon, habit refusing to loosen its grip, then look back at you, my voice quieter now.
Are you alright?