The flash of the teleportation array died down, leaving behind the smell of ozone and the biting chill of the night air.
They were back.
Not inside the suffocating, mana-dense halls of Velanthris, but standing on the stone receiving platform just outside the capital's main gate.
It was raining. A cold, miserable drizzle that plastered hair to foreheads and turned the dust on their cloaks into mud.
There were no trumpets. No cheering crowds. No flowers thrown at their feet.
The expedition, which had left days ago with hundreds of knights and nobles in shining armor, now looked like a funeral procession. Stretchers were rushed forward by waiting guild medics. Nobles wept openly, their finery torn and stained. The heroes—Daniel, Jason, William—stood huddled together, their armor dull, their expressions hollow.
