The Cost of Winning - Aftermath of the Harvest (Patreon)

They’ve won.Again.

The field is quiet now.Smoke drifts low across broken shields and cooling bodies.Fires that roared an hour ago are reduced to sullen red embers.The air still tastes of iron, charred leather, and the sharp copper of what was taken.

We sit.We stand.We breathe.

Armour hangs in pieces—clasps torn, plates cracked, leather scorched black.Skin is mottled with bruises the colour of old wine, cuts still weeping, muscles trembling from the strain of hours spent crushing, tearing, ending.No one speaks.No one cheers.The weight of what we did settles heavier than any crown.

There are no enemies left to show.No cheering crowds.No bright trophies swinging proudly from belts.Only the silence that comes after the screaming stops, when the last man’s voice finally breaks and the blade finishes its work.

This is victory.Not the shining kind.The kind that costs something.The kind that leaves marks no armour can hide.The kind we carry home in our bones.

We paid in blood.Theirs.Ours.And we’ll pay again tomorrow.

Because the next empire is already marching.

And we will meet them the same way.Silent.Bruised.Unbroken.

If you still want to kneel at our feet after seeing this…come find us.We’re waiting.

The war never ends.Neither do we. ⚔️🖤