The camp surrounding General Aeron's tent was always busy—officers in constant motion, scouts checking in, runners being barked at by captains far too tired to care about etiquette. But as Koda approached, the noise… lessened.
Not vanished. Not silenced.
Just muffled, as if someone had wrapped the world in gauze.
The guards outside the tent stepped aside without a word.
The tent was quiet. Not the stillness of peace, but the kind born of watchfulness—like a forest just before the arrow flies.
Koda stood a pace inside the threshold, shoulders squared, eyes scanning the dim interior. General Aeron was present, of course, but silent now, a figure of authority set aside in deference. The true attention of the room belonged to the other man.
He wore no insignia. No rank or title hung from his shoulders. But the space around him bent in subtle ways, like the fabric of reality was made thinner by his presence. He stood with casual poise beside a low-burning lamp, half-shadowed, half-seen.
The representative of the Order.
He studied Koda for a long moment. Not assessing. Measuring.
Then he smiled. It didn't reach his eyes.
"You stand taller than I expected," the man said, voice smooth, educated—too calm to ever quite be trusted. "But I suppose that's fitting. The burden of being chosen tends to straighten the spine."
Koda didn't answer.
The man didn't seem offended. He stepped closer, folding his hands behind his back as if beginning a lecture.
"The Order serves as the eye of the Eternal Guide," he said. "Not the voice. Not the hand. That's what makes us… problematic for some." His gaze flicked to General Aeron for the briefest moment, unreadable. "You've heard the stories, no doubt. That we whisper in thrones and slit the throats of kings. That we hold the leash of the church and bind the ambitions of its priests."
His smile widened—still not warm. "You may even believe some of them. Good. Truth and fear often wear the same face."
Koda crossed his arms. "Why am I here?"
"Ah." The man's expression didn't change, but the air grew heavier. "Direct. I like that."
He reached into his cloak and retrieved a scroll case—ornate, sealed not with wax but a woven ribbon of silver thread, glimmering with runic script.
"This is a summons," he said, "to the capital. Issued by the High Table of the Order, and sanctioned by the Chronical Keepers." He set the case gently on the war table between them. "A legacy waits for you there. One meant only for a chosen who bears the divine mark and survives the Hollow Trial."
Koda didn't move.
"No," he said flatly.
The man's head tilted slightly. A flash of genuine surprise. "No?"
"No. I'm not leaving Oria." Koda's voice was calm, but hard. "Not now."
The representative studied him for a moment longer. Then, understanding seeped into his eyes. he spoke softly:
"Maia."
Koda's jaw flexed.
The man let the name hang in the space between them like incense. "She waited for you on the walls, you know. Hours. Refused rest. Said she'd know when you returned." He gave a small, almost wistful sigh. "Devotion like that is rare. Beautiful."
He glanced down at the scroll.
"Of course," he said, as if musing aloud, "the road is long. Dangerous. You'll need a party. Trusted allies. Skilled companions." He looked back at Koda, and his smile finally touched the edges of his eyes. "Perhaps even someone from the Holy Mother's branch. Someone who would follow you anywhere."
Silence.
Koda didn't speak.
He only reached out, and took the scroll.
"Good," the man murmured. "I'll inform the capital you've accepted the summons."
Koda turned to go.
But before he reached the tent's flap, the man spoke again—quietly, like a blade being unsheathed.
"One last thing."
Koda paused.
"The Eternal Guide chose you because this world needs a leader," the man said, tone suddenly devoid of warmth. "But do not mistake that for license to do as you please. The Order has existed for more than two-thousand years—and in that time, we have toppled kings, exiled saints, and dismantled cities that grew too arrogant."
Koda said nothing.
"If ever the Guide himself broke the Creed he etched at our founding," the man continued, voice calm as frost, "we would be the ones to stop him."
A long breath passed between them.
Koda didn't look back. He stepped through the tent flap and into the waiting dark.
The note weighed heavy in his pocket.
But not as heavy as the eyes now watching from every shadow.
To Oria he was now a hero. But to the Order….another potential Tyrant.
——
The city was quieter now.
Not silent—never silent—but hushed in that particular somberance that follows catastrophe. Streets once filled with screams and steel were now lined with ash, the air still tasting faintly of smoke. Workers moved in staggered rhythms. Priests offered prayers in the gaps between triage tents. Life, stubborn and unyielding, went on.
Koda's path led him through the remnants of the lower quarter, past the crumbled market, beneath the collapsed watchtower where he'd once stood guard for coin and boredom. He knew where he was going before he saw it.
The orphanage had not escaped the siege.
Its roof was sagging, half of the east wall gone, and the garden where the younger children used to play was nothing but churned earth and rubble. Still, the door stood. Barely.
Koda stepped through the threshold, his presence drawing the soft creak of floorboards—and a slow, familiar turning of the head.
The Matron sat where she always had, in the old armchair by the hearth. The fire was cold, but her eyes were warm. Wrinkled hands folded neatly in her lap, posture straight despite the cane resting against her leg. She looked at him with something more than recognition. Something deeper. Older.
"Well," she said, voice rasped but proud. "Look at you."
Koda swallowed. "The place took a hit."
She snorted. "The city took a hit. We're still here." A pause. "But you… you won't be much longer."
He didn't answer. He didn't need to.
"I saw the way the guards looked at you on the way in," she said softly. "Not like a soldier. Like a banner. Like something holy. You were once Oria's burden, boy. A nameless mouth to feed."
She reached forward, took his hand.
"Now you're its pride."
Koda looked down, overwhelmed by the quiet weight of her affection. Her hand was smaller than he remembered. But steady.
"You've grown into something I can't keep here," she said. "And I wouldn't, even if I could."
He knelt, lowering his head to her lap, like he had when the nightmares came as a child. Her fingers combed gently through his hair, as if no years had passed.
"I always knew," she whispered. "Knew the storm that lived in you would one day break the sky."
Koda didn't speak. Couldn't. There was nothing to say that would matter more than this moment.
She gave him time.
Then, eventually, her voice broke the stillness again, with a hint of mischief: "Go check your room."
He rose, hesitating just long enough to meet her eyes—then walked the hall, boots echoing against cracked stone. The corridor was warped, pieces of the ceiling collapsed. A hole in the far end exposed the street beyond. But his door clung to the frame barely hanging from its hinges.
He pushed it open. Careful not to damage what remained.
The wall opposite was gone, blown apart during the siege. A gaping wound looked out over the broken edge of the city, the horizon dyed in gold and soft gray.
And in the center of the ruined room, beneath the beam of sunlight that fell through the collapsed roof, stood Maia.
Her back was to him. Shoulders relaxed. In her hands, a bundle of parchment—worn, folded with care.
Koda didn't have to ask. He knew what she was reading.
Letters.
The ones she'd sent him while he was away.
And the ones he had written… but never mailed. Stashed beneath the floorboards, sealed with wax, too raw to share. Some dated from the early days of his training. Others after bloodier nights. Some just a line or two. Some full pages.
All of them confessions in ink.
He stepped forward. Quietly. But she didn't flinch. Didn't turn.
"I thought these were gone," she said, voice soft, the parchment trembling slightly in her hands. "The wall… the fire…"
Her fingers brushed a torn page with jagged edges. She held it to her chest.
"You wrote so much," she whispered.
Koda didn't answer. He couldn't.
She finally turned to face him, tears drying on her cheeks, a sad, radiant smile playing on her lips. "You said you couldn't find the words."
He nodded.
"And yet you found so many of them."
She stepped forward—small, unarmored, powerful in a way that had nothing to do with strength—and gently placed the letters on his old desk still bearing the scars from the goblin attack 2 years prior.,
Then, she closed the distance and leaned into his chest.
Not quite crying this time. Just breathing.
"I'm glad you're alive," she said.
Koda's arms wrapped around her instinctively.
"I came back," he murmured into her hair.
She looked up. Lips brushing the edge of his jaw.
"You're leaving again."
A pause.
He nodded.
Maia's fingers tapped once—twice—lightly on his chest, then balled into a fist and gave him a half-hearted punch. Her voice wavered with mock sternness:
"Next time I walk away without saying goodbye," she whispered, "you better chase me."
Koda smiled. The ache in his chest wasn't pain. Not really.
"Deal."
The wind slipped through the broken wall, carrying in the scent of rain-washed stone and ash-softened earth. Koda didn't speak right away, watching as Maia moved toward the desk again, turning one of the old letters over in her hands, her fingers tracing the edges like she was learning them by feel. She didn't ask how long he'd kept them. She already knew.
He stepped forward, the floor creaking under his weight. "I was summoned," he said quietly.
She looked up, eyes soft and unreadable. "To where?"
"The capital." His voice felt heavier than he expected. "It could be months. Just the journey there and back. That's assuming the Order doesn't keep me longer."
Maia didn't flinch. Didn't ask why. She didn't need to. Her fingers set the letters aside with care, and she rose to her feet with a breath that shook slightly on the exhale.
"I don't want to leave you," he admitted, the words sticking in his throat.
Before he could go further—before he could even mention the travel permissions—Maia stepped in, her voice clear.
"Then don't," she said. "I'll pack my things."
He blinked. It landed so plainly, like it had always been true. And maybe it had.
Laughter slipped from his chest—startled, rough, and real. The first in days. Weeks even. Maybe longer. He didn't even realize how much he'd missed the sound of it until now.
"I have permission to bring a party," he said, grinning now. "Looks like the Order knew better than I did."
Maia smiled, a small, fierce thing. "Then it's settled."
Koda's smile lingered as he stepped forward, closing the last of the space between them.
"Yes," he said quietly. "It's settled."
Then he kissed her.
It was different than the first—no sudden rush, no startled edge. This one was slower, longer, deeper. A confirmation of what they'd both left unsaid for far too long. Maia leaned into him with the full weight of someone who had waited for this without knowing she'd been waiting at all. Her hands found the edge of his coat, fingers curling into the fabric, steadying herself against the rush of heat blooming in her chest.
Koda felt it too. The warmth rising between them. Not fire. Not hunger. Just that pulse of connection that made the world quieter around its edges.
Their cheeks flushed, not just from the closeness but the newness of it—neither of them used to this kind of intimacy. The gentle awkwardness of unspoken feelings brushing too close to the surface, tempered only by the choice not to run from it anymore.
She broke away first, only enough to rest her forehead against his.
Still no declaration. No promise.
But they didn't need the words. Not yet.
The following day came swift.
There was no ceremony. No grand announcement. Just motion—forward, fast, and necessary.
Koda moved through the half-rebuilt city like someone caught between two worlds. He didn't try to gather a new party.
He called his old ones.
Terron was the first to answer the summons, arms crossed, massive as ever. A force of nature wrapped in battered leathers and quiet loyalty.
"You're the nail?" the man grunted with a smirk. "Good thing I've still got my hammer."
Seta and Elise arrived next, sharp-eyed and light-footed. The former gave a nod, silent as always, while Elise greeted him with a grin and a knowing glance that said she'd heard about Maia. Somehow.
"You need eyes in the dark?" she asked. "We've still got you covered."
Renn and Eno joined not long after, twin terrors with bows slung across their backs and matching expressions of casual defiance. They didn't ask for details—they just showed up, because they always had.
And Maia… she didn't need to be called.
She arrived last, a satchel slung over her shoulder, her healer's staff clipped tight across her back, and a quiet fire in her eyes.
The group gathered at the edge of Oria's walls, wind stirring dust across the stone.
Koda looked at them—his allies, his people—and knew, without doubt, that this was the beginning of something much bigger than a journey.
They had survived Oria's siege.
Now they would face the world. Together.
As they set forward, taking the first steps of their long journey a sudden shout broke the morning calm.
"Wait! WAIT! You can't just—by the Guide's left eye—STOP!"
The group turned as a familiar figure sprinted down the uneven cobbles of the lower ring—robes flapping wildly, one sandal missing, hair sticking out at panicked angles. A Librarian—young, harried, and somehow already sweating despite the morning chill—was waving a stack of scrolls like they might explode if left unread.
Koda blinked.
Terron gave a grunt that may have been a laugh.
The man skidded to a halt in front of them, gasping for air. "You—all—can't just leave! There's a formal commendation being held. In the Inner Ring. Today."
Seta raised an eyebrow.
Eno tilted his head. "You sure it's not next week?"
"No! Not next—today! There's a list, a banquet, gods know how many speeches—dead gods, even! Your names are all written down in ink that cost more than my education!"
The librarian turned to Koda, eyes wide. "You especially. Sixty-two confirmed kills. First confirmed kill of the Fallen, final blow to the Heart. You're getting a Star of Merit!"
A pause.
"And your patron is being announced. Publicly. You really don't want to skip that. You can't!"
Koda exhaled through his nose, a half-smile threatening to rise. "You chased us halfway out the gates for a dinner party?"
The Librarian looked like he might pass out. "Yes."
The group broke into laughter. Even Seta cracked a smile.
Terron clapped Koda on the back, nearly knocking him forward. "Come on, war hero. Let's not waste a banquet. Won't have real food for weeks."
Maia reached over and adjusted the collar of Koda's coat, a smirk tugging at her lips. "Can't have you showing up looking like you slept in a ruin."
"I did sleep in a ruin," he said.
"Yes, well. Tonight you dine in silk."
Koda sighed—but his smile stayed.
"Fine. One night."
They turned and made their way back toward the city's heart, the damage of the siege giving way to cleaner stone and banners raised in mourning and pride alike.
Tomorrow, they would leave.
But tonight… Oria would remember.
And the world would begin to see the man they now called Hope.