The screaming and the blinding glare of sorcery finally ebbed away, leaving a hollow, pale silence where a slaughter should have been. The sky looked bled out, scrubbed raw by the sheer force of magic.
Below, the mud was a tangled mess of steel and bone, yet by some miracle, the toll of the dead was small.
If you watched the mud long enough, you'd see a breastplate heave with a shallow breath or a mud-caked finger twitch against a discarded shield.
The Redcrest clan drifted through the carnage like a tide of crimson silk.
They weren't there for the spoils; they were there for the souls. A low, amber light bled from their palms as they pressed their hands to jagged wounds, knitting flesh and setting shattered bone with a soft, rhythmic hum.
Every time a soldier gasped back into the light of the living, the healers seemed to wither, their shoulders sagging under a weight only they could feel, sweat dripping into the dirt as they poured their own life-force into the broken.
Eiden moved through the aftermath like a man made of stone. His boots were caked in heavy mire, and his joints gave a dry, splintering pop with every stride. He dragged air into his lungs in jagged, uneven pulls—the kind of breathing you only do when you've pushed your horse and your own heart miles past the point of collapse.
He found them slumped near a tattered pavilion—Prinston, Fennaro, and Bengie. They looked like they'd been battered against a fortress wall. Prinston sat with his head bowed, his fingers trembling as he dug them into his temples. Fennaro was propped against a grain crate, one hand clamped over his ribs to keep himself from spilling open, his eyes half-shut in a daze. Then there was Bengie, sprawled flat in the muck, his wings half-unfurled and twitching with the tremors of a man who'd flown into a gale and barely come back.
Eiden rolled his aching shoulder and let out a voice that sounded like grinding gravel. "Gods," he rasped. "You lot look like you've been through the thresher."
Prinston let out a short, hollow laugh that turned into a hacking cough. Fennaro tried to raise a hand in greeting, but his shoulder let out a sickening click that made him hiss through his teeth. Bengie didn't even lift his chin; he just raised a single thumb from the dirt.
"I'm… whole," Bengie muttered, his words muffled by the grass. "Just… give me a moment to remember how to breathe."
"You fought like devils," Eiden said, the quiet finally settling over them.
Prinston gave a weak, lopsided grin. "As did you. I heard the Angel King caught one look at you and decided his throne wasn't worth the blood."
Eiden just shrugged, though the movement sent a hot needle of pain down his spine. They sat in the tall grass for a time, trading those slow, heavy words that only men share when they realize the dying is done. Eventually, Prinston pushed himself up with a groan, his knees cracking like dry kindling.
"Up," he said, rubbing the stiffness from his nape. "Let's see what sort of prize we've bought with all this ache."
They drifted through the Angel King's city like spirits.
The streets were unnervingly fine—no soot, no blood, just a clean, eerie silence that felt like a held breath.
Every manor they stepped into just threw the sound of their own boots back at them.
Then they reached the citadel.
It was a monster of white stone and gold leaf, the floors so bright they reflected their grime-streaked faces like a mirror. The air inside was cold and stagnant, smelling of nothing at all.
Prinston stopped in the center of the great hall and looked up at the vaulted ceiling. "I think I could get used to this," he croaked.
Eiden couldn't suppress a snort. "I'm sure you could."
Prinston beckoned a weary knight. "Send a rider back to the village," he commanded, rubbing the back of his neck. "Tell them the war is over. This is our kingdom now. And this? This is my seat."
The knight gave a stiff salute and hurried off.
Prinston turned back to Eiden, his face going uncharacteristically somber. "Eiden," he said, closing the distance. "You've carried us on your back more than once since we met. I owe you more than I can pay." He clapped a hand onto Eiden's shoulder, leaning into him just enough to keep his own legs from buckling. "I'll stand with you against Civilar. And whatever else comes after, my sword is yours. You just have to name the task."
Eiden nodded slowly. "I know."
As the sun began to bleed orange across the horizon, the four of them were practically buried in a massive velvet settee in one of the high chambers. The room was grand enough for a god—vast arched windows, marble floors inlaid with gold, and rugs so thick they swallowed their tired feet. Eiden sank into the silk and let his head thud back. Prinston kicked his boots out with a long, pained groan. Fennaro worked a knot in his forearm, wincing, while Bengie lay sprawled sideways, one leg dangling over the edge as he breathed like a foundered stallion.
Then the heavy oak doors were flung wide.
A roar of sound hit them—the clatter of mail and the thunder of cheers. "Huzzah for the four!" "Long live the victors!"
The rest of the company surged in—Tenadey, Zanme, Bevollo, and the others. And with them came Ruby, Lily, Laustr, and Mayble, all of them wearing the white-and-gold livery and the yellow cloaks of their new pact. Mayble didn't hesitate; she threw herself forward and pulled Prinston's head into a hug so tight it looked like she might snap his neck.
"Oh, my boy, I thought the earth had swallowed you," she sobbed. Prinston's muffled protest came from somewhere deep in her cloak. Eiden let out a dry chuckle, Fennaro looked away to hide a smile, and Bengie just raised a limp fist toward the ceiling.
Night fell, and they gathered in the great feast hall—a cavern of crystal chandeliers and stone murals that had watched a thousand years of kings. The tables were groaning under the weight of the spread—roasted boar, thick loaves of dark bread, flagons of heavy wine, and steaming pottage. The hall was packed with bandaged knights, black dragons with folded, aching wings, and Redcrest elves who looked like they were sleepwalking from exhaustion.
Prinston stood at the high table, rapping his silver chalice until the room went still. He looked like he was held together by sheer will, but his voice didn't waver.
"Friends," he began, his gaze sweeping over the bruised and the weary. "Before we break bread, there is a truth that needs naming." He looked toward the center of the table. "This victory belongs to Eiden."
Eiden felt the world go cold and still.
"I'd be rotting in a shallow grave if not for him. No Redcrests, no kingdom—nothing. He is the reason we are breathing this air tonight."
Eiden stared down at his trencher, his throat tightening until it hurt.
Prinston raised his chalice to the rafters. "We hold two kingdoms tonight. We will find men to till the earth, offer them our steel for their harvest, and build a peace that actually lasts. We're going to carve five of the greatest realms this world has ever seen out of the dirt. And this city? This will be the Capital of Gosadee."
He turned his eyes directly to Eiden. "Thank you, Eiden. From the bottom of an old man's heart. Now… eat! Drink until you forget the pain!"
The hall erupted. Men lunged for the meat, laughter drowned out the ghosts of the battle, and the wine began to flow. Everyone moved, everyone cheered—except Eiden. He sat like a statue, staring at the grain of the wood. His hands were shaking beneath the table. His chest felt like it was being squeezed by an iron band, and his breath hitched in his throat.
A single, hot tear splashed onto the table. He tried to brush it away, but another followed, then another. It had been years—no, it had never happened. In his whole life, no one had ever stood before a crowd and seen him like that.
And for the first time since he could remember, the weight on his shoulders didn't feel like a burden.
It felt like pride.