The cheers and shouts had ebbed into sobs and silence. The battlefield—once a storm of chaos and terror—was now a field of ash, blood, and broken bodies.
Smoke from makeshift pyres drifted to the heavens in muted columns, the acrid scent of burning mingling with iron and earth.
Arasha did not pause.
With her armor still stained and her limbs aching, she moved among the fallen.
Where others hesitated, she bent low, lifting broken soldiers in her arms, carrying them to the lines where they could be identified.
Some bore no faces left to see, some were torn so grievously that friends wept just at the sight of them.
She did not flinch.
She stood there, steady as stone, ensuring each was marked, recorded, and carried to the pyres with dignity.
When the names were found, she called on the network, sending messages through carriers, ensuring families knew of their kin's sacrifice—not as nameless deaths, but as honored souls.
And she made certain the coffers were opened.
Every widow, every orphan, every aged parent would be compensated.
No sacrifice would go unpaid.
Her voice was quiet but firm as she gave orders:
"See to the medical tents first. The healers cannot work without water—double the supply lines. Move the wagons closer. Don't waste time arguing routes. Just move."
And she kept moving, carrying, speaking, delegating, refusing to stop.
Kane followed, at first lending his own strength to bear the wounded, distributing what remained of his panacea in careful rations.
But his eyes kept drifting back to her.
He saw her hands tremble when she thought no one was watching.
Saw the way her eyes darkened each time she sent another body to the pyres.
He saw the silence clinging to her shoulders like a second cloak.
And at last, he had enough.
When she returned from delivering another soldier to the fire, Kane caught her wrist. His hand was firm, his tone brooked no refusal.
"Enough."
Arasha blinked at him, caught off guard, lips parting to argue.
"You haven't eaten," Kane pressed, his voice low but edged with iron.
"You haven't sat. You haven't breathed. You'll break before dawn if you keep this up."
"Kane—"
"No." He shook his head, his eyes burning with a mixture of anger and desperate relief.
"I thought I lost you. I—" His voice faltered, cracked. He steadied himself, squeezing her wrist. "Don't make me watch you throw yourself away now."
For a moment, the mask she wore almost slipped.
She felt his gaze digging, reaching for something she dared not let him find. The hollowness in her chest, the gnawing guilt she still could not name—it all threatened to rise.
So she forced herself to look back at him, steady, her lips curving in a faint smile.
"I'm not throwing myself away," she lied gently. "I just… need to see this through."
Kane searched her eyes, suspicion flickering there, but the overwhelming relief that she was alive softened him.
His hand loosened, his thumb brushing the edge of her gauntlet.
Still, his frown remained.
"Sit. Eat. Even for a moment."
Her reluctance was a weight between them. She wanted to look away but forced herself to meet his gaze.
Forced herself to hold it, so he would not see the fear, the unease buried behind her mask.
"…All right," she murmured at last, and let him guide her away.
But even as she sat, even as Kane pressed food into her hands, her mind lingered on the pyres.
On the silence in her soul. On the unseen cost.
The world had been saved. The alliance endured.
But something in her had been lost.
And Kane—blessedly, painfully—did not see it.
****
A month passed.
A month of fire and silence, of numbers tallied and names spoken aloud for the last time.
Every battlefield was walked twice over, every ruin inspected, every grave accounted for.
The dead were burned with rites that shook the hearts of both soldier and citizen alike, flames carrying their memory to the heavens.
The wounded were transferred in steady waves, borne on wagons or lifted by spells, their groans echoing through long nights until healers could take them in.
The alliance moved as one body, as if some invisible cord now bound them.
Kings and queens, generals and tacticians—all worked without pride, without pause, their rivalries set aside by the brush of annihilation.
The networks fixed and strengthened; information flowed with clarity; logistics were distributed with fairness.
Supplies arrived where they were needed, no matter whose banner flew above.
For the first time in centuries, the world seemed truly united.
And it mattered.
People saw it.
Felt it.
After fire and despair, the air now seemed lighter. Villages laughed again.
Markets reopened, children dared to run through the streets. Even the skies seemed brighter, no longer choked by the smoke of endless pyres.
The alliance had endured. The world, for now, was safe.
Yet in the saddle, as hooves struck the road homeward, Arasha could not feel it.
She rode beside Kane, their men trailing behind them in neat formation. Kane's posture was upright, his expression lighter than she had seen in many moons, the faintest smile tugging at his lips when he glanced at her.
His eyes still bore the weight of all they had seen, but there was relief there too—a hope he refused to let go of.
Arasha tried to mirror it.
But deep within, the gnawing unease remained.
The Primordials' voices had not returned since that day, but their farewell clung to her memory like a shadow she could not shake.
Something had been severed, something changed—and she did not know what.
Worse, she feared she never would, unless the cost one day revealed itself in ways too late to mend.
The world might brighten, but she felt dimmer.
So she smiled faintly when Kane caught her eye, forcing the mask to hold.
She straightened in her saddle, her voice steady as she called back orders to the column, keeping her tone clear and crisp so no one suspected the tremor beneath.
The Scion hold rose in the far distance, its spires touched by the setting sun, promising rest, safety, and the long work of rebuilding.
For her soldiers, it would be a return to hearth and hall, to warmth after horror.
For Kane, it was homecoming, a great victory for this time, he hadn't lost her and came back unbroken.
For Arasha, it was another stage of duty.
The rifts were gone, the cult erased, the world spared—yet her heart whispered that the cost had not truly been tallied.
Not yet.
The gates of the Scion Hold opened wide, and for the first time in months, the banners of its knights fluttered high without dread shadowing them.
The courtyard was already crowded—families pressed shoulder to shoulder, friends craning their necks, children waving small stitched flags.
When Arasha and Kane rode through, flanked by the weary but unbroken Scion Order, the cheer that erupted seemed to shake the very stones.
It wasn't the roar of soldiers in victory—it was laughter, sobs, clapping hands, a thousand voices calling names with desperate joy.
Men and women darted forward to grab hold of riders, to reach for hands, for proof that those they loved had returned.
The air smelled of bread and spice, music already carried faintly from within—the hold had prepared a feast for its heroes.
And at the center of it all, waiting with open arms, stood Garran, Rewald, Leta, John, and Roen.
Kane slid from his horse first, steadying Arasha as she dismounted, though his own hands trembled.
Garran was upon them in moments, his broad frame and beard now streaked with more gray than Kane remembered, his eyes wet despite the smile etched across his face.
"It's good—" Garran's voice broke, and he cleared his throat roughly.
"It's good to see you both alive, despite the damned heart-stopping tales that reached our ears."
Kane, caught off guard, felt his own chest tighten.
Tears pricked his eyes before he could stop them.
Leta saw it instantly and burst out laughing, pointing a finger at him.
"Oh, my look at that! The great Kane, the immovable wall, tears glistening in his eyes, just like young squires being recognized as knights for the first time!"
Kane laughed through his tears, rubbing them away with the back of his hand. "Shut it, Leta."
Garran shook his head, chuckling lowly even as his shoulders trembled.
Arasha, tilting her head with mock severity, teased, "You really are getting old, Garran. Seeing you sentimental like this—it must be the years catching up to you."
Before Garran could retort, Rewald folded his arms with a sly smile.
"Old? Hah. I'm older than Garran, and you don't see me bawling my eyes out. Don't slander us elders so quickly, girl."
That broke them all into laughter, warm and bright, spilling into the evening air like a balm.
Even the knights behind them grinned, shoulders easing as they listened.
John stepped forward next, his usual sharpness softened with relief.
"The hold's logistics are in order, Commander. Supplies, stores, and records—all accounted for. You don't need to trouble yourself with it tonight."
"And you," Roen added firmly, adjusting his spectacles, "need to report to the infirmary at once. Both of you. You may look well enough, but I'll not have you collapsing after all this and proving me right about your stubbornness."
Arasha laughed, shaking her head, the unease deep in her chest muffled—if only for this night.
Surrounded by voices she cherished, by warmth and teasing, by the feast awaiting them, it felt almost possible to forget the Primordials' whisper.
For the first time since that silent, white space, she let her guard lower, if only a fraction.
The welcome was bright, alive, and full of gratitude—the kind of moment that stitched together a world torn nearly apart.
For now, Arasha let herself be swept into it.