The moment the JLTVs rolled into the city's western checkpoint, the guards on duty snapped to attention.
Even behind the tinted armored glass, it was impossible not to recognize the rumble of those war machines. Children paused in the streets, pointing excitedly as the lead vehicle rumbled through, followed by its twin, dust trailing behind like banners of smoke.
Inigo slowed the rear JLTV to a halt just outside the guild building. It was already evening. Lamps glowed with soft white magic, and the plaza buzzed with returning parties, vendors, and carriages. A few heads turned, then widened as they saw who stepped out.
Scarred, soot-streaked, exhausted—but unmistakably victorious.
Lyra hopped down first, stretching her arms. "Finally. No more stairs."
Sark slammed the passenger door behind him. "Or frogs. Or screaming god-things."
"Heralds," Feron corrected, still cradling the containment case with the orb inside. "Let's not forget what we faced."
