The battlefield was now quiet.
Rain dripped and pooled into bloodied dirt. Armor rattled as soldiers shifted. Swords dropped. Bows were lowered. None moved.
The silence was pregnant with a weightiness — there was no peace, only shock.
In the center stood Luenor, battered and delirious, peering down at Marquess Maxim Mellon as he knelt in the mud. Golden armor cloaked in grime and blood, a silver cloak saturated with rain, hung around his shoulders. He knelt nonetheless, proud with his head held up high yet humble in spirit.
Hunter stepped in front of Luenor, arms slightly ajar, still bracing for a fight, with the enemy's blades lowering, Hunter wasn't convinced the danger was over. His eyes flicked back to the crowd — knights still sluggish letting confusion hold them still. Elves in branches above with arrows notched but not released. Gangs at the ready mid-breath, frozen.
Then, like the world allowed itself to remember how to exhale, the clouds broke. And rain stopped.
Sunlight poured through the dissipating storm. Gold and warm, it spread across the battlefield like a benediction: gleaming against broken swords, glinting off dented shields, and catching the shimmer of faded blue mana residue still hanging around Luenor's skyshard blade.
Mellon's eyes, worn and glassy, fixed onto Luenor's face with the kind of reverence that arose not from rank, but from memory. He raised his own head.
"For three years," Mellon said softly, "I believed that House Sureva had suffered its demise. That Arhenius would have reduced to whispers and tombstones."
His voice wavered, cracked slightly.
"Your father—the Duke—was not only my lord; he was a brother-in-arms. He was my savior. He was the man who taught me honor." Mellon looked down, his fists clenched in the mud. "He fell, and I lost much more than a leader. I lost my compass."
The silence thickened again.
"And now, I see you, boy, standing where he would have stood. Not only wielding his weapon, but also his spirit. His defiance. And I know... I know hope is not dead."
Luenor did not speak. His head was spinning. His knees shook and were not weak from fear. His body had been pushed to its limits, and now emotions and confusion and the sheer enormity of this moment sat heavy on him beyond any blow.
Mellon was finally on his feet. "You were the ones who breached the forge?"
Hunter, noticing Luenor's silence pressed forward. "Yes. We needed the truth. There were secrets buried in there, secrets about the skyshard blades. We would have never found out what we did without going in."
"You could have asked me, you know," Mellon said, the timbre zeal-like in tone but not unkind. "Had I known who you were, I would have opened the gates with my hand. You would have had every secret the forge contains. I remained, as always, a servant of House Sureva."
And then — Luenor fell down.
His sword tumbled to the ground. His legs no longer supported him. Hunter was there to catch him before he collapsed. There was a little bit of an effort to ease him down, as Hunter's instincts took over, his eyes drew shut, and his body fell slack.
____
Luenor woke to comforting softness.
There was far too much warmth in the pillow and the bed was unbelievably comfortable. He stirred slowly, eyelids blinking at golden sunlight streaming through stained glass windows. For a moment, he thought he was simply waking from a dream; a gentle dream of a time long past.
But, when the agonizing pains in his body crashed over him like a tide, he knew he was indeed alive.
He heaved himself to sit upright, wincing. His bare chest was wrapped in pristine white bandaging, clean, freshly treated. The linen sheets felt strange, like his body had just recently become detached from the weight of battle.
The room was enormous—too large for an inn and too large for barracks. The ceiling was held in place by carved stone archways. Embroidered curtains of each window were wafting in an incomprehensible breeze. Off in the distance, a fireplace crackled low.
He sluggishly dragged his legs from under the sheets, then stood for the first time, and though he swayed slightly his hand gripped a nearby table for stability. He could feel every part of his body protesting movement, but managed to stumble his way towards the door.
He pulled the door open slightly—just enough to peek through.
Outside the doorway stood a figure, upright and rigid.
Old. Dressed in formal garments unmistakably belonging to palace servants.
The man's hands trembled behind his back, making his knuckles turn white. Although his body was stiff as a board, he was trembling at the shoulders. Although his face was wrinkled, it looked like stone, but his eyes seemed more like cracked glass, literally brimming with tears that would not fall.
Luenor stepped out into the hall, and the echoes of his bare feet transmitted pleasantly across the stone.
The man turned.
A moment of silence.
Then, his lips quivered and his knees went out from beneath him.
"My lord..." he said softly.
Luenor blinked. The voice was old now, cracked with age, but something in the way it reminded him of his past.
He had flashes...a cold winter in Ganglen, a boy running through the hallways chasing shadows in the dark snow; a coat put tenderly over his shoulders; a firm voice scolding for skipping lessons; peppermint tea at midnight ....
"Roddin....?"
The name fell from Luenor's mouth the moment he realized it, and the man, Roddin, fell to his knees, sobbing.
"Oh my lord... I thought you were dead. I thought—" he choked. "Forgive me. Forgive your old servant. I have failed your father. I have failed the house. I should have—should have protected you; protected Ganglen—"
Luenor sank to one knee next to him.
"No," he said gently. "You lived. You kept others alive. That's more than most would manage."
Roddin's fingers trembled as he grabbed his hand. "We watched it all fall! We could not stop it! They burned the banners off the hall! Three statues of your mother... All, gone! We just barely escaped with our lives! The Marquess took us in. He gave us shelter, purpose in life. But, every day, I wondered... I wondered if you were out there, all alone."
"I wasn't," Luenor said. Now his eyes shimmered as well. "I survived. So did Hera. And your mother... she is alive."
Roddin sobbed harder, the sound echoing through the corridor.
Then he painstakingly composed himself, standing and trying to gain back what little dignity remained to him. He wiped tears from his eyes and forced a crooked smile. "The Duke would be proud. You resemble him so much."
"I hope I grow to be half the man he was."
"You already are," Roddin said, and for the first time pride bloomed in his voice
Luenor smiled faintly. "How did you end up here?"
Roddin straightened. "When the palace fell, a handful of us maids and butlers escaped through the hidden passage under the library. We fled north and were taken in by Marquess Mellon. He gave us sanctuary without asking for loyalty. He only asked that we live."
Luenor looked at the man in silence for a moment longer. Then, gently, Roddin placed a hand on his shoulder. "Come, my lord. The Marquess is expecting you. He has waited a long time for this day."
____
The great hall was impressive but not ostentatious. The long banks of tapestries were flanked by stone columns carved with the ancient oaths of House Sureva. On the wall behind the dais hung two flags, one the gold sun of Carrowhelm, and the other — newer, restored — the lion and northern star of Sureva.
Hunter was already in the hall sipping tea as he smirked. Bobby Venhart was off to the side, arms crossed with bruises visible on one eye.
Mellon laughed loudly from his chair, the formality of a goblet full of wine in hand. Other than his laughter, the hall fell silent when Luenor appeared.
The Marquess stood and crossed the hall with long strides, demonstrating no hesitation in embracing him.
"You are your father's son," he said with a voice thick with pride, "not by name only, but by heart as well."
Luenor didn't know what to say. He had imagined confronting the legacy of House Sureva and reclaiming it — but not in the time span he was looking at. And not in such a public way. Or a powerful way.
"I thought you should know," Mellon said with a step back, "now that you are alive, the noble houses are going to stir. Liles Siegfreed's grip will loosen. House Sureva can rise again."
Luenor raised a hand. "Not yet. We need more than banners, we need strategy. Allies. Intelligence."
Mellon nodded. "Of course. After the Convergence many of your father's vassals swore new loyalties. But not all of them. Some only knelt to survive. If they learn you are alive it just may be enough to spark the flame of loyalty again."
Hunter added, "But that news also has a bullseye on your back. We'll need to be careful."
Luenor faced Mellon. "Why did you not swear to Siegfreed? Duke Verasus?"
The Marquess smiled; it was warm and sad. "Because of what your father once did for me."
He waved them to sit, and the air in the hall shifted.
"I was no noble," Mellon said. "Just a hotheaded student of achievement at the Royal Scholar Academy. Ambitious. Arrogant. Thought I was invincible,"
He laughed softly at himself.
"One day during a survival trial which took place in the Dead Hollow — a blighted forest plagued by storms of mana — I broke rank. I thought I could grab a capture flag on my own."
His grin faded.
"I made a mistake. A beast found me. Twisted by mana. Repugnant. It crushed my leg, toxicicity my blood. I hardly escaped, but I was alone, lost."
He looked to Luenor.
"Your father - then just in his third year - sought me out. Everyone else was hesitant. But not him. He located me, half-dead. He carried me for six miles through the Hollow while he bled out. He fought the beast off with just an old longsword and a will to live using every ounce of his strength."
Mellon rested a hand against his chest.
"I owe him everything. My life. My title. My honor. When Ganglen fell, I did what he would of done - I offered sanctuary."
Luenor was silent, listening. He could feel the weight of the tale settling into his bones.
It was a long moment before he nodded. "Then let's not waste your loyalty. We will make preparations. Quietly. But quickly."
Hunter moved in. "We don't need a war yet, we need a foothold".
Bobby cleared his throat. "If you just say the word, I'll keep your presence secret - but if this spreads, your enemies will multiply."
Mellon raised his goblet. "Then we make our next moves wisely."
Luenor looked up.
At the restored crest of House Sureva now hanging above them.
No longer a relic.
But a banner of return.
A symbol of what would come next.