The morning was calm—almost in contradiction to the chaos of the night before.
Elizabeth was still asleep, wrapped in the sheets, utterly exhausted. Her breathing was deep and steady, a sign that her body had finally allowed itself to rest after so many hours of surviving on sheer willpower.
Lusian watched her for a moment before rising. He brushed a gentle hand through her hair—almost reverently—then slipped out of bed with careful movements. His wounds burned more than he admitted, even to himself.
The night had been… intense.
Too intense for someone who had nearly died only hours earlier.
That was the reason he had not gone with the heroes to inspect the bodies.He had had a more immediate duty.
More intimate.More human.
He stepped into the hallway of the governor's residence. A few half-asleep guards lingered at the corners, and a damp silence filled the air. In the main dining room he found some fruit with low mana concentration, light bread, and a plate with a mid-level bird—enough food for a warrior.
Food he intended to share with Elizabeth when she woke.
He was returning down the hallway when he saw him.
A child.
Thin beyond reason.
Sunken eyes, yet somehow shining—as if the mere smell of food was enough to return a spark of life.
Lusian stopped.
The boy did too.
And in that instant, something inside Lusian—something he did not even know he had preserved from his past life—awakened.
The gesture came naturally.
Instinctively.
"Hey…" he said gently. "Come here. You can have this."
He tore a piece from the bird and held it out to the boy with the calm ease of an older brother.
The child took one step.
Then another.
His eyes trembled, as if he feared the food might vanish like a dream.
But before his hand could touch it, someone else arrived.
Not like a barrier.
Not like a reprimand.
More like an embrace stepping between them to prevent a tragedy.
"Lusian…" Emily said softly, almost in a whisper.
There was no judgment in her voice.
Only concern.
She knelt beside him, not pushing the child away, but not allowing him to take the food either.
"You can't give him this," she explained gently. "It isn't safe for him."
The boy looked at her, confused.
Emily smiled and touched his hair kindly.
"It's alright, little one. You didn't do anything wrong. It's just… your body is very weak right now, okay? You need something softer. I'll prepare something proper for you."
The boy nodded shyly. Emily helped him sit nearby before turning back to Lusian.
Her eyes held something warm.
Something she had carried since that day…
The day she thought she would die beside her mother, beside her people, when the monster stampede destroyed Carter County.
And Lusian appeared.
She had looked at him that way ever since.
"Lusian," she continued quietly. "What you do… gestures like this… they aren't wrong. It's never wrong to want to help."
He frowned slightly, confused, stung by a correction he didn't fully understand.
Emily stepped closer—not intruding, but close enough that he could feel her presence.
"What you gave people in my territory was different. Low-level animals. Simple fruits. And I purified the mana before anyone ate it." Her lips trembled faintly. "These people… are worse off. Much worse. If they eat something as dense as what you eat… they could die."
Lusian lowered his gaze, an unfamiliar knot forming in his chest.
Not guilt.
But the unease of realizing he had come dangerously close—without knowing it—to causing harm.
Emily shook her head softly, reading his expression.
"No," she whispered, gently touching his hand. "Don't think that. You were never a danger. Never. I saw it—I saw you giving your own food to those people without hesitation, without judgment. A noble of your rank… never does that. And yet you did. Again and again."
A small, honest smile touched her lips.
"You're not cold," she said softly. "You're just strong. So strong… that sometimes you forget what the world looks like from below."
The boy tugged at the edge of her robe, seeking her attention. Emily stroked his hair.
"Come on," she said tenderly. "I'll prepare something suitable for you."
Then she looked back at Lusian.
"And you… please get some rest. I don't want to see you bleeding again."
Emily left with the child, leaving behind a faint scent of light and a warmth that lingered in Lusian's chest.
One week.
That was all it took.
The Carpathian army, disciplined as a single body, recovered faster than Governor Arvian believed possible.
The heroes had also healed—at least outwardly—though their eyes still carried the weight of the bodies they had been forced to recognize.
Lusian, though still sore, walked with his usual controlled indifference.
And Elizabeth…
Elizabeth had fully regained her royal bearing.
The kind that could inspire thousands without raising her voice.
The caravan—now smaller, since many refugees had remained in the city—prepared to depart at dawn.
As they approached the main gate, something caught everyone's attention.
The plants.
The seeds Elizabeth had given them were already climbing the walls, the rooftops, the wooden beams—as if they had been waiting their entire lives for a climate so rich in mana.
In just one week, the vines had covered half the district.
And there were already buds.
Small green fruits, shining in the light—some the size of a bluish fist, others still tiny but full of promise.
One of the priests stopped in astonishment.
"That's impossible…" he murmured. "They're growing so fast…"
Kara, walking beside Lusian, folded her arms with a small smile.
"With this much mana in the air, any plant capable of absorbing it will multiply quickly. The princess chose well. They won't be hungry much longer."
Emily, a step ahead, looked at one of the fruits and remembered.
"That's how it was in the county…" she murmured. "We couldn't even feed our own people… and yet thanks to these plants everything changed."
Leonardo said nothing.
He only clenched his jaw and kept walking.
The citizens were the first to approach.
At first timidly.
Then running.
They lined both sides of the path carved through the streets by the caravan—bowing, waving, crying.
"Thank you!"
"The fruit is already growing!"
"My children will eat again!"
"May the gods protect you!"
Elizabeth did not raise her hand to greet them.
She was not one for theatrical gestures.
But she lowered her head.
Just a little.
And that small gesture caused murmurs of emotion to ripple through the crowd.
The princess of an enemy kingdom… bowing to them.
The veterans who served under Arvian—men who had once fought the Douglas family in war—stood in silence.
For the first time, there was no fear on their faces.
Only respect.
Lusian walked forward without changing his expression.
But he was not indifferent.
He remembered the child in the hallway.
He remembered Emily helping him eat diluted soup.
He remembered small hands gripping the sleeve of his coat.
Seeing those plants…
Seeing those fruits grow so quickly…
Gave him a feeling he had almost forgotten.
A quiet relief.
Calm.
Emily, walking a little ahead while organizing the healers, glanced back at him.
Just for a second.
A soft smile.
As if she knew exactly what he was thinking.
Arvian leaned against the city wall's railing, his eyes fixed on the horizon where the caravan was already disappearing.
His hands—hardened by years of war and governance—slowly clenched into fists.
"I've never seen anything like it," one of his captains murmured, disbelief heavy in his voice. "More than eight thousand people—all of them survivors—and the heroes, all together… no one would have believed it possible."
"And yet," Arvian said gravely, "here we are. The city was not looted, the wounded are being treated… and not a single one of our people was wasted through negligence."
His gaze softened as he looked at the green shoots spreading across the rooftops.
"Even those plants… we never imagined something like that could save us."
One of the older men—a veteran of several campaigns—shook his head slowly.
"The Empire and Carpathia spent years killing each other. And now look… they march together. For the first time, people have hope."
He leaned on his spear and sighed.
"War, noble disputes, grudges… all of it seems so… pointless compared to this."
"Pointless," Arvian repeated as the last wagons of the caravan vanished behind the hill.
"What matters now is not who will rule which city… nor which hero deserves the most glory."
"What matters is surviving."