Golden sunlight soaked the banners of the Guardians of the East as they fluttered wildly in the fresh, playful wind, as if the sky itself had decided to celebrate their return. Lyan rode at the front of the procession, his cloak trailing behind him like a second banner, its edges tugged and flared by the breeze, the silver sigil stamped on his back flashing with each sway of his horse's stride. Beneath him, his steed's steady gait hummed through the leather reins, the familiar rise and fall of each step grounding him in a rhythm he had marched to for years. Yet despite the steady beat, there was a strange lightness to the air. The war was over. The march wasn't toward another battlefield—it was toward home.
Home.
The word still felt foreign on his tongue, like he was borrowing it from someone else's story.
