Louis's Iron Tide had already moved on.
What remained in the gorge was not the cheering of victory, but fear that had yet to cool.
The refugees knelt in the mud, flour still clinging to their hands.
Some clutched injured legs, biting strips of cloth to keep from crying out. Others stared blankly at the distant firelight, as though they had yet to wake from that frenzy.
They had thought they would be abandoned here.
But before long, a second group entered through the mouth of the gorge.
These were not cavalry coming to reap lives, nor a spear formation sent to clear the field.
They were logistics and medical teams.
Hundreds of soldiers carried bulging field packs, their steps steady and swift.
Their uniforms were all the same color, a grayish white so pale it almost hurt the eyes, as if designed to stand out against mud and blood.
Beaked masks and layers of gauze covered their faces, leaving only pairs of weary but alert eyes exposed.
The Sun Armbands on their arms stood out sharply in the cold light after the rain.
Dozens of Alchemical Glowsticks were planted in the ground. Their ghostly white light spread, illuminating the dark gorge into a straight corridor. The chaos was forcibly cleaved apart.
The refugees instinctively tried to shrink back, but the team did not rush at them.
First they pitched tents, strung quarantine ropes, and set up cooking pots.
Only then did someone climb to higher ground.
She wore standard Red Tide light armor, rainwater rolling off her pauldrons.
A two-handed greatsword nearly as tall as she was rested on her back, its hilt wrapped in dark leather.
When she removed her faceplate, she revealed an impossibly young face, with a faint scar from an old wound on her forehead.