The smoke of war still lingered faintly as Arthur stood at the square of
Draxenhold. Before him, hundreds of townsfolk gathered—faces weary, eyes
swollen, hands clinging to one another as if afraid to let go. Along the
cracked gates, Valoria's soldiers lined up in order, their black-and-gold
banners fluttering solemnly beneath the morning sun.
Arthur's voice cut through the silence, firm yet warm.
"People of Draxenhold. Yesterday you stood against us, today you stand with
us—under Valoria. I give you a choice, without coercion: remain here as
citizens of Valoria, or depart bearing the name of Solaris. No chains will bind
you, no sword will chase you."
He paused, letting a long breath pass through the crowd.
"Walls may crumble, but life must not collapse with them. If you choose to
stay, you will be protected as part of us. If you choose to leave, you will be
released with honor. Draxenhold will be rebuilt—not only of stone and mortar,
but of trust and future."
Whispers broke out. A mother clutched her child tighter. An old man bowed
his head in silent prayer. A merchant with a scorched tunic stepped forward,
his voice trembling.
"We… will stay. Our home is here. Better to live under Valoria than abandon it
to dust."
Some wept with relief; others nodded quietly. Arthur inclined his head.
"Very well. Then Draxenhold shall rise again, and you will be its heart."
That day turned into a symphony of labor. Beams were lifted, stones laid;
hammers struck nails until cracked walls stood once more. Valorian soldiers and
townsfolk mingled among the ruins: a young man of Draxenhold handed a water jug
to a weary soldier; a knight of Valoria lifted rubble from a trapped child's
foot; a nun bound the arm of a surviving Solaris warrior. On the western edge
of the city, cremation fires burned. Black smoke curled skyward, carrying the
bitter scent of metal and resin, while bells tolled softly each time a
stretcher passed. The city that had been hell the night before was—slowly, so
very slowly—learning to breathe again.
By midday, a trumpet's call split the air. From the northern gate came a
procession bearing green banners. Solaris' diplomat, Cassian Verdan, led the
way; his robes were neat, though dust clung from travel. He entered the grand
hall, temporarily serving as a throne room. Arthur awaited upon a carved wooden
chair, Lionel Drest at his right hand—calm eyes, hands clasped behind his back.
Cassian bowed.
"Your Majesty Arthur. I come bearing the command of Emperor Lucian. Solaris
seeks peace. We offer fifty thousand gold coins in reparations, on the
condition that hostilities end… and Draxenhold be returned to Solaris."
The hall fell silent. All eyes turned to Arthur.
He remained still for a long while, his face composed, yet his thoughts
raced.
Draxenhold… its walls still echoed with the cries of his soldiers. To return it
now—what would that make of their sacrifice? Fifty thousand gold… a vast sum,
but no price for the wounds left behind. Solaris still had armies. If they did
not stop now, they would strike again. Peace must come with terms.
At last, Arthur spoke, his voice deep, each word weighted.
"Draxenhold belongs to Valoria. It shall not be returned. If Solaris truly
desires peace, there are two conditions: the gold you offer must be doubled to
one hundred thousand coins, and Solaris must end all aggression. Withdraw your
forces from Veritas and Ironvale, and cease spilling blood on lands that are
not yours."
Cassian stiffened, his jaw tightening. He met Arthur's gaze—the eyes of a
king who measured every life of his people, unwilling to let his soldiers'
sacrifice turn meaningless.
Finally, Cassian lowered his head.
"One hundred thousand gold… and an end to aggression. Solaris accepts. This
treaty is not what we desire, but what necessity demands. Our military lies
shattered. If war continues, our nation will collapse."
Arthur gave a single nod. The treaty was brought forth, ink poured. Both men
signed, witnessed by Valorian soldiers and mages. Thus, five years of peace
were sealed: Solaris' gold and retreat in exchange for the release of prisoners
of war.
After the ceremony, Arthur summoned a captain who had stood at the front
lines from the war's beginning—Gareth Veynar. A scar crossed from temple to
jaw, darkened with soot not yet washed away.
"Gareth Veynar," Arthur declared, voice ringing in the hall, "for your
courage and loyalty, I name you Viscount of Draxenhold. Accept this seal of the
city, and this short sword as a mark of duty. Rebuild its walls, protect its
people, and lead them in Valoria's name. Do you accept?"
Gareth knelt, setting his helm upon the floor. His voice was hoarse, nearly
breaking.
"With my life and death, I accept. For Valoria… and for my king."
Arthur pressed the seal into his palm; warm wax left a mark that would not
fade. A roar rose through the hall. Valorian soldiers cheered, and townsfolk
bowed, accepting their new lord.
The next morning, mist drifted low. Valoria's banners flew above the gates.
Arthur prepared to return to the capital. Five thousand soldiers were left
under Viscount Veynar's command to guard the city, while twelve thousand
marched back with Arthur.
He cast one last look toward Draxenhold—its roofs still broken, its walls
braced with timber, its banners fluttering weakly. He remembered the names of
soldiers who would not return, names now mingled with the ashes rising into the
sky. Then he turned away, facing the long straight road home.
Word of the treaty spread swiftly across valleys and rivers.
In Veritas, the senate house thundered with debate. A young senator struck
the table.
"Solaris has been forced to pay gold and halt its aggression. Valoria holds the
reins. Do we align ourselves with Arthur, or strengthen before our turn comes?"
An elder senator raised his hand for calm.
"Arthur ended war when he could have pressed further. That proves he seeks
order, not ruin. Drawing closer—with dignity preserved—is the wiser path."
In Ironvale, King Barthol Van Stones received the missive. He stood on his
stone balcony, gazing over the mountains.
"If Solaris' sun can set, then the night of war has passed," he murmured. The
nobles of Silverwood exchanged glances; one remarked, "Tighten trade with
Valoria. Our timber, their ore. Strength is built on bridges, not trenches."
In Riverbend, torches lit the riverside palace as news arrived. King Alden
sat upon his carved riverwood throne, listening calmly though his eyes gleamed.
"Solaris has yielded… and Arthur demands they withdraw from our frontier. That
means our river is safe from raids."
Princess Elara leaned forward.
"Then our tribute of grain is no loss, Father. Valoria has proven it can bring
Solaris to its knees. With this peace, Riverbend can breathe—and grow."
Sir Elric Davonar, his shoulder still bandaged from Ironvale, added,
"Arthur is no mere commander. He is a strategist. The rune he used was not just
a weapon, but a warning: he can topple anyone who stands in his path. Better to
stand with him than against."
King Alden nodded slowly, then ordered,
"Strengthen our trade fleet on the Azure River. Send the tribute of grain as
promised—and add a gift of this season's wine. Let Valoria know Riverbend
stands at its side."
In Solaris itself, the marketplace boiled with voices.
"A city lost, our gold surrendered!" a merchant shouted.
A young mother countered softly, clutching her thin children.
"Better the gold be gone… than these lives."
Minor lords grumbled in distant halls; some demanded pride, others fretted
over salt, spice, and bread. Over all of it, Arthur's name was whispered—not
only as a shadow of fear, but as proof that war could be ended at the table,
and walls rebuilt without forfeiting the future.
The world now looked upon Valoria with new eyes—half in awe, half in fear.
And at the center of it, Arthur's name spread like a banner in the wind: the Barrier Breaker—who this time chose
to sheathe his sword, so that a city might learn to breathe again.