The Pale Citadel loomed behind them, its bone walls crumbling under the morning sun as Leon and the survivors left it behind.
Of the many dozens soldiers who had marched to face Vraxus, only twenty-seven remained, their armor battered, their faces etched with grief and triumph.
The path back to Eldwood was long, but the forest felt lighter now, the corrupted red-veined trees no longer hissing, the air free of demonspawn.
The sky was clear, streaked with gold, and Leon rode near the back of the column, nearly dozing in the saddle, his tattered black and crimson tunic swaying with the horse's gait.
His magic was a faint pulse, drained from healing the wounded after Vraxus's fall, but the bonds with Saria and Terya thrummed quietly in his chest.
That night, they made camp near a quiet river bend, the water glinting under the stars, the air cool and clean.
