The wind in Greyrest had changed.
Where once it carried soot and the stench of burned wood, it now carried whispers, of hope, of help on the horizon.
But hope was a strange thing. It never came without a price.
The messengers returned on the fifth day.
Their horses foamed at the mouth, their eyes wild with exhaustion. Joren fell from his horse.
Garren caught him before he hit the ground fully.
"He's alive," he barked, checking for wounds. "Just ran himself dry."
Ethan helped the other rider, Mira, the stonemason's daughter, down from her horse. Her hands trembled. Not from fear, but from something deeper. Relief. Or maybe the weight of having survived something she couldn't yet explain.
"They're coming," she whispered. "The banner flies."
Two days later, they arrived.
Dozens of riders in Riverhelm silver and midnight blue, their cloaks trimmed with the stitched outline of a river snake. At their head rode a woman with streaks of white in her braid and sharp, unreadable eyes.
Baroness Elyra of Riverhelm.
She dismounted slowly, removing her gloves with deliberate grace as she surveyed the broken wall, the patchwork homes, and the worn faces gathered to greet her.
"This is Greyrest," she said softly, more to herself than anyone else. "Still breathing."
Ethan stepped forward, his heart hammering.
"I'm Ethan of House Grey. Son of Alric. I welcome you to my father's hall, what's left of it."
Ysolde looked at him, and in her eyes was recognition. Not just of a name, but of a lineage burdened by responsibility.
"You wear his eyes," she said. "But the lines around yours weren't earned in council chambers."
"I earned them here," Ethan replied. "One stone at a time."
She gave the faintest nod, then looked past him at the crowd. At the old farmer with his arm in a sling. At the baker's boy with burn scars across his cheek. At Lina, who stood with a girl asleep against her shoulder and a blade strapped to her hip.
"These are not soldiers," Ysolde said.
"No," Ethan agreed. "They're better. They stayed."
In the Wake of Help
Help changed things.
But it didn't fix them.
The people of Greyrest didn't cheer when the Riverhelm soldiers marched in. They didn't line the streets with flowers or raise their voices in thanks. They watched from doorways. Some with guarded eyes. Some with shame.
Old Maeve said it best: "A stranger's hand is still a stranger's."
The wounded still lay beneath canvas tents, moaning through fever. The wall still needed patching. And the grief, it hung in the air like smoke that wouldn't clear.
Ethan found himself walking the edge of the fields every night now. Watching the dark.
Waiting for it to move.
One night, just past dusk, Ethan sat with Garren beside a campfire.
No armor. No plans. Just the crackle of wood and the ache in their bones.
"She brought more than swords," Garren muttered, poking at the fire with a stick. "She brought questions."
Ethan nodded. "She'll want something in return."
"She already asked?"
"No. But she will."
Garren leaned back, staring at the stars. "You think we can trust her?"
"I don't know," Ethan said honestly. "But I think we can't stand alone again. Not and survive what's still coming."
Silence fell again.
And then Garren added, quieter, "I lost two nephews in that last fight. Both thought you were some kind of hero."
Ethan didn't respond right away.
Then: "I'm not."
"I know," Garren said, and smiled sadly. "But they didn't. And that hope? That kept them standing when their legs wanted to give."
By the seventh day, the Riverhelm camp had become part of the town. Their banners flew beside Greyrest's old faded crest, a silver boar on a cracked black field.
Children ran between tents again. Food lines formed. Training resumed, not just with townsfolk, but with soldiers teaching technique and discipline. The wall, though still battered, had a rhythm to its rebuilding.
Ethan stood on the scaffold as the sun dipped low, painting the sky in bruised pinks.
Lina joined him, a bowl of stew in hand.
"I hear the Baroness offered you a place in her court," she said.
"She did."
"And?"
"I told her I already have a place. Right here."
Lina smirked. "You always did like the mess."
"It's home," he replied.
She handed him the bowl.
"Eat. Then rest. There'll be more monsters tomorrow."
He took it, smiling faintly.
Not at the stew. Not even at her.
But at the feeling, the smallest, sharpest ember, that maybe, just maybe, they weren't alone anymore.