The gates of Oria came into view just as the first true light of morning began to touch the edges of the sky. Smoke still drifted in lazy columns from broken rooftops. The walls were scarred, the fields beyond torn by battle—but they were still standing.
And on the southern wall, framed by the pale dawn, Maia stood.
She hadn't moved for hours.
Her cloak fluttered gently behind her, caught in the wind. One hand braced the parapet. Her eyes, red-rimmed and unblinking, searched the horizon—searching for something she refused to believe had been lost.
And when the figures finally crested the last hill—bloodied, battered, but walking—her breath caught.
She didn't wait for orders. She didn't call down. She didn't even look back.
Maia climbed.
Down the inner ladders, down the stone path, down toward the ground like a soul too long kept from earth. Her boots hit the mud just as the gates opened—and then she was running.
Koda saw her dashing out from the gates.
Maia hit him full-force, arms around his ribs, face pressed against his chest. The momentum nearly staggered him, but he didn't care. she pounded her fists weakly against his chest once—twice—before they just gripped his shirt and held.
She was crying. Shoulders shaking. Her forehead rested against the center of his sternum, breath ragged, words caught behind sobs.
Koda wrapped his arms around her without thinking. Tight. Steady. Grounding.
"I'm okay," he said softly. "Maia, I'm—"
She reached up and kissed him.
It wasn't polished or planned. It wasn't slow. It was desperate and real and now—her fingers curled into his shirt, the salt of tears still on her cheeks, breath catching as she pressed her lips to his like she was trying to convince herself he was truly there.
When she pulled back, her laugh was broken and hoarse, somewhere between sobbing and breathing again.
"…Maybe I should walk away before you can answer this time," she whispered, voice teasing, even as more tears slid down her face. "Worked out pretty well last time."
Koda didn't smile, not quite. But his hand moved gently up her back, steadying her.
"I would've followed you again," he said. "Even if you did."
Her laugh turned into a small, choked sound—part joy, part pain—and she clung to him tighter, forehead still tucked beneath his chin.
Around them, the others gave space. There were nods. Quiet understanding. A few tired smirks. The war hadn't ended. Not really. But in that moment, for just long enough, something like peace settled over the battered remains of the raid party.
And the gates of Oria—still standing—closed behind them.
The peace didn't last.
Within minutes of the gates closing, the whirlwind began.
A pair of librarians intercepted the group before they reached the main barracks, their robes still stained with ash, scrolls in hand, demanding a full mission report. Not later. Not tomorrow. Now. They spoke in clipped tones, quills already scribbling, barely looking up from their ink-stained parchment as they fired off questions.
"Estimated kill count?"
"Any corrupted artifacts recovered?"
"Was the Spire Core neutralized?"
"Survivors. Names. Spell marks. Rank."
Torren answered first, gruff and half-limping, rattling off names with military precision. Elise supplemented, her voice dry, tired, but exact. Dara snapped at one of the scribes for interrupting her while she listed the fallen.
Koda stayed quiet until the final question came.
"Final blow—who delivered it?"
The librarian didn't even look up. His quill hovered.
"Me," Koda said simply.
The quill paused. For a moment, silence.
Then a second scribe—older, slower—looked up at Koda fully. His eyes flicked over the armor, the tattered cloak, the blood, the dirt, the faint echo of something else still clinging to Koda's form like mist that hadn't yet burned off.
"Name?" the scribe asked quietly.
"…Koda."
The man's eyes narrowed, lips parting like he might say something more.
But he only wrote.
By the time the librarians departed, other hands had already pulled the raid survivors away. Officials from the city council—less interested in names and numbers, more focused on the logistics of praise. Accommodations were being assigned. Ceremonial garb was requested. There would be a gathering. A speech. Something for the people.
Not today, but soon. They needed hope. They needed a symbol.
They needed him.
The survivors were swept into the mechanisms of a city desperate to prove it was still standing. Taverns opened early for the wounded. Tailors were summoned to refit battle-damaged armor for parade. Healers worked overtime, and temple bells tolled not just for the dead—but for the victorious.
And above it all, the Church of the Eternal Guide stirred.
The reaction was immediate.
Clerics and Diviners alike met them at the inner sanctum, word already having passed through unseen channels. Koda's name was not whispered—it was carried, reverberating through sacred halls, tangled in prayers and concern.
He had returned not just as a warrior—but as the chosen of their highest Patron.
Some knelt.
Others stared.
Some asked for blessings they did not understand.
And a few—hidden behind hoods too low and voices too smooth—watched him with something more dangerous than fear. They bowed, smiled, and spoke in soft, respectful tones.
But they bowed too slowly.
Their smiles were too sharp.
Their eyes did not leave his back when he turned away.
Whispers called him the Butcher—a name that had already begun to spread through the rank and file. Brutal. Efficient. Divine. No wasted motion. No mercy. A weapon in human shape.
Others called him the Guide's Hero—a gift, a sign that the Eternal Guide had not abandoned Oria in its darkest hour.
And to the people?
To the broken families and burned-out homes?
To the children who watched from windows as his blood-soaked boots passed through the city?
He was hope.
Not perfect. Not peaceful. But present.
Koda didn't speak through it all. Not yet. His hands still bore the calluses of the Spire. His thoughts hadn't settled. The divine power still stirred in his blood—quiet now, but alive.
There would be time to grieve. Time to rest.
But not today.
Today, the world began to turn again.
They didn't approach him in the temple, or amid the chaos of the council summons.
They waited.
Waited until the sun had fallen halfway past the walls and the city's attention drifted, lulled by the rhythm of rebuilding.
Koda stood alone for the first time in hours, his armor stripped to the waist, blood finally cleaned from his skin. The air outside the barracks was cooler than it had any right to be. Quiet, too. For a breath, he could almost believe it was over.
Then he noticed the woman.
She wasn't dressed like clergy. Or a soldier. Her cloak was plain, travel-worn, but the way she moved made it feel like armor. Not elegant. Not slow. Just… precise.
She walked straight to him, ignoring the guards at the gate who opened their mouths to protest and promptly forgot what they were about to say.
Her eyes were dark. Her face unremarkable.
But when she handed him the note, her fingers brushed his palm—just barely—and something cold sank into his skin like ice water.
She didn't speak. Didn't smile.
Just turned, and left the way she came.
Koda looked down at the folded parchment.
No seal. No name.
Just one line, scrawled in a hand too steady for anything but command:
"Report to General Aeron's command tent before nightfall. Do not delay."
There was a second line, faint—almost hidden in the grain of the parchment:
"You are expected."