The skies of Plaguebane had never been so "clear."
The invisible, soul-shaking pressure and whispering hisses born of the xenos' presence had finally vanished completely.
In their place came the smell of scorched earth purified by flame, mingled with the scent of still-cooling Lava and metal, and a trembling freshness in the air—the breath of survival.
At the edge of the battlefield, an enormous Landing Craft slowly descended onto ground temporarily leveled by Engineering Machinery, its hatch hissing open.
Dark green giants marched out in formation, their armor covered in scorch marks, pits eaten by acid, and dried, blackened xenos fluids.
Their heavy footsteps carried exhaustion, yet remained as steady as mountains.
They did not immediately return to their ships. Instead, they formed a perimeter around the landing zone of their own accord, standing in silence, facing outward with their backs to the area where the survivors' evacuation and initial shelter were being organized.
This was their custom. Until absolute safety was assured, the Legion would not readily leave.
Yet the people, too, gradually emerged from their tents.
At first, only scattered, tentative glances came from behind shattered shelters, through gaps in makeshift medical tents, and from crowds supporting one another.
Those gazes held the remnants of fear sunk deep into their bones, a daze of disbelief, and a cautious hope they scarcely dared trust.
Gradually, quiet sobs and excited murmurs began to rise.
At last, the first person—a young man who had lost his left arm, his wound roughly bandaged—struggled to prop himself up on his stretcher. With all his strength, he called out to the nearest Salamander, who stood with his back to them, checking his Gun:
"Th... thank you!"
His voice was hoarse and cracked, yet it fell like a pebble into still water.
Then came a