They returned at dusk. Dravenguard's once-unshakable host trickled through the gates like the tide in retreat, slow, quiet, broken.
There were no horns to greet them. No triumphant cries. Only the creaking of iron and the faint shuffle of feet against frost-bitten stone. Armor dragged. Swords hung dull at their sides. Even the shadows that once clung proudly to the cloaks of kings and champions now fled to the corners of the city, embarrassed by those they once followed.
From her high tower, Vaeloria watched them.
Her breath fogged the glass.
Prince Alaric's armor was dented and stained with dried blood. The banner he held flapped limply in the wind, torn,colorless, defeated. Behind him, the remnants of the Dravenguard army followed without order, eyes downcast, some limping, others supported by men with wounds as deep as they were silent.
King Ashkeroth's chariot rolled in after them. Its black wheels had once drawn fear even from the bravest of men. But now it merely squealed like rusted bones.
Vaeloria said nothing.
She stepped back from the window with an eerie calmness. Her fingers toyed with the edge of her silk sleeve, the stitching unraveling as her grip tightened. She turned. The room, decorated with deep velvets and onyx pillars, seemed too still.
Then the silence snapped.
She struck the corner of the mirror with the back of her hand. It cracked instantly. A jagged line ran down her reflection, splitting her face in half.
"They let them live," she whispered.
The words tasted wrong in her mouth. Let them live. Let him live.
Her foot met the leg of the table. It toppled. A golden vase shattered against the marble. Fragments scattered across the floor, bleeding petals from the crushed lilies within. The scent of crushed flowers lingered long after she had left the chamber, her footsteps echoing through the corridor like war drums.
Elsewhere in the palace, the gossip began to stir, as if silence could no longer contain the tension seeping through the cracks.
No one knew what had truly happened at the borders. No one had seen the battle in Artherion. But the truth had no need for witness. It moved on the backs of broken soldiers and empty eyes.
Something had changed. Something had ended.
And something had been spared.
The noblemen didn't meet one another's eyes. Generals avoided their own reflections. Servants moved as if carrying fragile glass across a floor of knives. The court, once a nest of schemes and silken poisons, now felt cold watched.
In the servant quarters, Mirelleth kept her head down.
She had spent the last hours tending to the wounds of men who would not speak. Their faces were blank, mouths sealed. One stared at the corner of the wall for hours. Another screamed once in the middle of the night and had to be restrained by six men. No one dared to ask what he'd seen. Or rather, what he had survived.
She moved between rooms with bandages in one hand and a cloth soaked in violet tea in the other. But her thoughts were not in her hands. They had slipped somewhere else entirely.
A slip of parchment still sat beneath her pillow. Unnamed. Unclaimed. Four words.
You are not forgotten.
She hadn't shown it to anyone.
She hadn't dared burn it, either.
Now, seated on the floor outside the wounded quarters, Mirelleth drew her knees close and stared at the candle flame wavering against the wall.
She didn't see the battlefield.
She didn't know the knight.
But she had felt the sky change.
The moment the war ended, she had felt it, in her breath, in her bones, in the silence that followed like an audience holding its applause too long.
The candle flickered.
Behind her, footsteps approached, sharp and deliberate.
Mirelleth did not rise. She recognized the rhythm.
Vaeloria stopped at the edge of the hall.
Her voice was low. Calm. Dangerous.
"You've been quiet."
Mirelleth rose, head bowed. "y-yes, yes, my lady."
Vaeloria stepped forward. Her heels tapped against the stones. She stopped just inches away.
"I've heard whispers," she said. "Nonsense, of course. Wild talk. That the armies were turned away by light. That shadows themselves fled." She tilted her head. "You believe in such things?"
Mirelleth kept her eyes on the floor. "No, princess."
A pause.
Then the crack of palm to cheek. Mirelleth staggered to the side, lips parting slightly, but no sound escaped her.
Vaeloria studied her.
"You flinch better when you lie," she said softly. "I prefer truth in my pets."
Mirelleth swallowed. The side of her face burned, but she gave no answer.
"You've been walking like something's changed," Vaeloria murmured. "Like there's a song in your ear I can't hear. Do you think you're part of something, Mirelleth? That your story has suddenly become important?"
Mirelleth's lips moved. "I think nothing, my lady."
Vaeloria smiled thinly.
Then she turned and left, her presence falling away like the last hiss of a dying torch.
Mirelleth stood still for a long time. Then, slowly, she raised a hand to her face, touched the heat in her cheek, and drew in a long breath.
The candle behind her danced wildly for a moment, then stilled.
In her chest, something ancient whispered beneath the silence.
---
Beyond Dravenguard, the land continued to speak of the war. In hushed tones, in the wind over hills, in the sigh of trees.
Artherion did not answer. No rider came. No message was sent.
The kingdom had disappeared behind its divine veil again, unbothered by politics or vengeance.
But in the hidden spaces between one breath and the next, something shifted.
The Knight went back to his position by the King's side.
The Seraphim had returned to their realm.
Lucien was in his chambers looking out upon Artherion.
"George, do u think I should bring her to this castle. I fear what she'll have to go through in Dravenguard. "
George is Lucien's personal servant. He is 18 and has brown hair and an average build.
"That will be wonderful sir," replied George.
Lucien facing outside through the balcony turned his head slowly and rolled his eyes towards George as he turned.
"You always answer positively. Always standing with my opinions, " Lucien said stepping into his room and closing the large glass doors behind him.
George smiled like a playful child, "well, I can't possibly know more than u do, but still staying around you makes me know more, so I'm positive that it's a right move."
Lucien chuckled.
"My lord, the dinning has been made ready and you will be dining with the king, generals, seraphs and the officials of the war."
"Thank you. I'll get there, " Lucien said as he walked past George leaving a pat on his head.
"Lucien!" He called
Lucien turned slowly, 'No my lord?'
"T-thank you. Thank you for winning the war. I can't tell how awesome you were out there. I wish I was there too, able to fight by you. Who knows what would have happened if we lost. The enemy was terrifying. "
"You couldn't have joined in. You would have died in an instant."
"But my lord, I'm gonna die anyway. So if dying in battle by your side is what I get then I'm more honored than i can ask for," George said with tears now welling up.
Lucien faced down and smiled discreetly, 'I can tell he feels so much gratitude and is trying to express it.'
"George, come with me to the feast, I'll serve you whatever you want to eat, afterall, you did contribute to the war with always making sure I looked my best."
George's smile widened as he tried to hold it back while fighting back tears.
"See why I never object t to your words, " he said and they bothered laughed.