The survivors were given no parade.
Just a quiet escort through the fortress walls and a curt order: "Report to the infirmary, then the barracks. Debrief begins tomorrow."
But no one rushed to obey.
They were given clean clothes. Hot food. Medical care. Blankets. But most couldn't eat. Couldn't sleep. Couldn't speak without choking on the silence that clung to them like ash.
Adel sat on a cot in the recovery wing, still wrapped in the same bandage from four days ago. A healer had tried to change it, but he didn't flinch when they touched the wound. He didn't even blink.
Troy sat by the window, chewing slowly on bread he couldn't taste. His axe was gone—they'd taken it for inspection. He didn't care.
Finley cried once. Quietly. Curled up under his blanket, facing the wall. Not because he was hurt—but because no one told him it was over.
The three of them barely spoke those first few days.
They'd gone to war together.
And returned as strangers to themselves.
A week passed.
The barracks began to fill again. Familiar faces reappeared—some smiling, some changed beyond recognition.
There was laughter in the hallways again, but not from Adel's group.
They were placed in a secluded corner, their unit too fractured to rebuild.
The others called them "the quiet ones."
One day, Garran himself visited their room.
He didn't smile. Didn't salute. Just stood at the doorway, eyes hard but not unkind.
"You lasted a month in the Black Forest. That makes you soldiers," he said. "But what you carry makes you dangerous."
He paused.
"You have two months. Rest. Heal. Find your footing again. Because the Empire won't wait for broken blades."
Then he left.
The next day, a letter arrived.
It bore the seal of the fortress commander.
It was short. Direct.
"You are granted leave. Two months. Return to your towns, your families—if they still stand. When you return, you report as official Imperial Reserves."
Adel stared at it for a long time.
He thought of home.
Of the field behind his old house. The broken fence he never fixed. The sky above that never seemed to change.
He wondered if he could still belong there.
If any of them could.
"Home…" Finley muttered, reading over his shoulder.
Troy scoffed quietly. "What the hell do we do there?"
Adel folded the paper. His voice was steady, but low.
"We try to remember who we were."
They didn't leave the fortress as heroes.
No medals. No cheers. Just three young men walking through the gates with packs on their backs and ghosts in their shadows.
The road home was quieter than it should've been. Summer wind stirred the trees, but no birds sang. The sun was warm, but it never quite touched them.
They passed other returnees on the way—recruits heading to their own towns. Some smiled. Most didn't. A few looked at Adel's group with recognition, maybe even respect. None stopped to talk.
The forest was behind them. But it had left its teeth buried deep.
They reached Adel's village on the third day.
It looked the same.
Too much the same.
The bakery still gave off that sweet, yeasty smell. The cobbler's hammer still rang in the morning. Kids still laughed by the stream.
Life had moved on.
Without them.
Adel's mother dropped her broom when she saw him.
She didn't cry. Just held him like he might disappear again.
Finley's father was waiting outside the smithy, arms crossed, jaw tight—but when his son appeared, he broke. Just wrapped him in silence.
Troy's house was empty. His uncle had passed while he was gone. No one told him.
He didn't go inside.
Just sat on the roof that night and watched the stars until his eyes burned.
They tried to settle.
Tried to pretend.
Adel walked the fields again. Fixed the fence. Replaced the old scarecrow.
Finley helped his dad at the forge, though his hands still trembled when the flames flared.
Troy started sparring with the village guards. Not to train—just to feel something solid in his grip again.
The village asked questions.
They gave polite answers.
But behind their eyes were flashes—of blood, of screaming, of the cold silence that came after.
On the twelfth day of leave, Adel stood outside the chapel, staring at the sky.
Finley joined him. Said nothing at first.
Then quietly, "I still hear them, sometimes. At night."
Adel nodded.
Troy arrived minutes later, a bruise on his knuckles.
"We're not done," he said. "Doesn't feel like we're done."
Adel's grip tightened on the wooden railing.
"No," he said softly. "It feels like we left something behind."
Finley tilted his head. "What do you mean?"
Adel looked back toward the distant horizon. Toward the direction of the fortress. Of the forest.
"I don't know. But we'll go back."
He wasn't sure why.
Maybe it was duty. Maybe guilt. Maybe something deeper.
But the Black Forest had changed them.
And something in them… still wasn't whole.
The stars blinked gently above, soft and far. The warm yellow light from the kitchen spilled onto the old porch, where Adel sat with a steaming cup in his hands.
Inside, the clinking of plates had stopped.
His mother stepped out, wiped her hands on her apron, and sat beside him. For a moment, neither spoke.
Just the sound of crickets. The creaking of wood under their weight.
"You've grown taller," she said at last.
Adel chuckled faintly. "Everyone says that."
"But I mean it." She smiled. "You were so small when I first saw you. Do you remember?"
Adel stared at his cup. His voice was low.
"I remember… walking. Not where from. Just... walking. Everything hurt. I think I was trying to find something."
"You had no shoes," she whispered. "Your feet were bleeding."
He nodded slowly. "There was a cart... burnt. I think I was hiding under it before. But that memory's fuzzy."
She reached over, gently brushing the hair from his eyes. "You were eight. Barely alive. You didn't even speak for the first few days."
Adel's hands tightened around the cup.
"I was angry," he said. "At the world. At myself. I didn't know why."
"And yet," she said, "you helped the baker's boy fight off a dog two weeks later."
He gave a weak smile. "He was crying. I didn't like that."
She looked at him, eyes soft. "You were always protecting others, even back then. You're still doing it now, aren't you?"
Adel looked away.
"I couldn't protect all of them," he whispered.
His mother leaned her head against his shoulder. "You were never meant to carry the world, Adel. Just your own steps. One at a time."
He blinked, eyes suddenly burning. He hadn't cried since the forest.
"I saw so many die, Mom."
"I know."
"Some... I couldn't even save when they were right there. And I froze. I let them..."
She didn't interrupt. Just listened. Held him.
"I don't even know who I was before the forest anymore," he whispered. "But I don't think he's coming back."
"You don't need to go back to who you were," she said. "You just need to choose who you'll be now."
He closed his eyes.
Let the tears fall quietly in the dark.
And for the first time since returning, he let himself be a child again—just for a moment.
Held by the one person who never needed him to be strong.