High above the newly liberated skies, sunlight spilled through the cracks of the shattered Hallow for the first time in three years, bathing the void-ravaged land in gold.
Leon drifted in that light, the hum of power still faintly resonating around him.
The war was over, but his work wasn't, not yet.
Something soft suddenly slammed into his side, nearly knocking him from the air. Leon steadied himself instinctively, glancing down to see a familiar elf clinging to his arm.
Racheal, pressed herself against him with a deliberately pitiful expression.
"Leon," she said in a tone that balanced sorrow and playfulness,
"I didn't get to do anything during the campaign. My rewards might be… compromised."
She gave a theatrical sniff, resting her head against his shoulder.
"It would be really bad if I didn't get anything at all. Unless," her eyes shimmered with mischief, "someone decided to make it up to me with, say, a shared bath toge—"
