They returned to the cove as the sky bled orange into the sea, the wind carrying the scent of salt, ash, and blood. Their stolen pirate vessels creaked with damage, torn sails flapping, hulls bruised—but nothing that couldn't be mended.
Crates of stolen gunpowder and captured weapons were stacked high along the shore. The wounded were tended to, while the dead were laid out beneath makeshift shrouds. A quiet hung in the air like mourning smoke.
Khisa gathered the soldiers, carpenters, and shipwrights for funeral rites. A small raised platform had been built near the shore, the ocean behind him crashing like distant drums. He stood beside Tesfaye, his cloak fluttering in the sea breeze, ash from a burning fire pit swirling around them.
He looked over the gathered crowd. Tired faces. Bloodied bandages. Silent tears.
Then he spoke.
"Today we mourn those who have lost their lives in the fight.
Each life gave us one more chance to win this war.
