The fires had been extinguished. The rubble cleared from the main roads. The blood washed away with enchanted rain summoned by the city's archdruids. What remained was not silence—but song.
Victory, after all, was rare.
The city of Elandra had stood. Barely. And though the scars still smoked and the scent of death lingered faintly in the stone, the people rejoiced.
Banners once sagging with ash now flew proudly again. Children danced barefoot in the plaza, weaving between rows of broken statues. Merchants reopened their stalls, giving out warm loaves and skewers of spiced meat for free. The Temple Bells rang overhead, slow and solemn, but with a rhythm of triumph.
And the name on everyone's lips—was Inigo.
"The gunslinger?" one soldier asked.
"Inigo Velasquez, Gold-ranked adventurer," laughed another. "He tore through a full platoon of nightcrawlers with that spinning beast of his. Never seen anything like it!"
