The others began to gather near Arkas. One by one, the five Grandmasters stepped out of the haze, their bodies marked by the battle, yet standing tall.
Cillian arrived first, pale breath still misting around his shoulders. Then Cassian, his golden blade now dimmed, trailed by the wind Grandmaster, who wiped blood off a torn sleeve.
The Earth Grandmaster followed, his steps heavy, quiet. Edgar came last, as always, like a shadow returning home.
I stood near Arkas, watching them draw close. No one spoke. Everyone realised the battle and the war against the Holt's was over.
Arkas looked up at them, eyes dim but steady. His robes were torn and stained red at the side, but he hadn't moved from where he sat.
Then, Dante's voice cut through the stillness. "It's done. Good."
