There were no parades.
No commemorations.
Just morning.
The sun rose over Halron Vale, casting soft gold across the Garden Archive. A child watered a tree planted from ash-covered soil. Nearby, a teacher read from the Gentle Archive—not in reverence, but in rhythm.
The pages didn't speak of Caelum Dross.
They spoke of courage without conquest.
Of softness surviving.
Of grief that became compost.
Scenes Across the World
In Vendrael, a lantern festival lit without names, only stories stitched into silk.
In the North, elders taught children the word enough through lullabies, not lectures.
In forgotten ruins, no one built monuments. They planted listening gardens.
And in a small alley painted with chalk and moss, someone passed by a fading mural of a cloaked figure holding a lantern. No one stopped.
That was the victory.
Myth didn't need to be remembered.
It needed to be released.
Sera Vex walked through the plaza—unnoticed, content. Her hands pulsed quietly. Not with fire. With resonance. She didn't speak. She didn't correct. She simply existed.
And the devil watched from a rooftop made of forgotten songs.
"They didn't need you to finish the story," she whispered. "They needed to know they could begin their own."
Sera smiled.
Not for Caelum.
Not for legacy.
Just for the world that kept going—
And never looked back.