Eldwood had never felt so alive.
Lanterns burned along the rooftops, casting a warm glow over the village square, where tables groaned under the weight of roasted meats, fresh bread, bowls of glowing Solberries, and jugs of honey-wine.
Children ran through the torchlit streets, their laughter mingling with the strums of a lute, while soldiers—bandaged, weary, their armor patched—sat among the villagers, laughing through their exhaustion, mugs clinking in toasts to survival.
The air was thick with the scent of food and fire, a stark contrast to the blood and ash of the Pale Citadel.
Leon stood near the central fire, a mug of honey-wine in one hand, his tattered black and crimson tunic replaced with a fresh linen shirt, loose but clinging to his sweat-damp frame.
He watched the chaos unfold—dancers spinning, couples embracing, a child weaving a garland of flowers—his heart full but his body heavy, his magic a faint pulse after days of healing.
For once, there was no screaming.
