The valley was quiet again. Too quiet.
The firelight of raiders no longer scarred the hills, and the cries of battle had faded into memory. What remained was the hush that always followed bloodshed—the kind that made even the trees stand solemn, as if the earth itself mourned.
Brax stood at the edge of the clearing, his warhammer strapped to his back, his armor dented and stained. He should have felt relief. The Black Hand were finished, their medallions scattered among the dead. Yet all he felt was the familiar emptiness that came after victory, the gnawing silence that had followed him across every battlefield.
But this time was different.
Because behind him, in the small wooden house that smelled of herbs and firewood, someone waited. Not a captain, not a commander, not another mercenary who might fall by dawn—but Lina. A girl who had seen him at his worst and had not turned away.
He clenched his fist, staring at the house as if it were a fortress he dared not approach. For a long moment he thought of leaving, disappearing into the forest before dawn, back to the road, back to the endless war that had been his only home.
But then he heard it.
A laugh—light, clear, unguarded. Hers.
And for the first time in years, Brax allowed himself to close his eyes, to breathe, to let the weight of his hammer rest without shame. The road would call him again. Darkness always found its way back.
Yet tonight, standing beneath the stars, he knew one truth that cut sharper than any blade:
he no longer carried his burdens alone.
Hope had taken root, stubborn and unyielding.
And this time, he would not let it go.