The war was over. But peace was not quiet.
A soft wind rolled over the fields where graves now stood—rows upon rows of names etched into black stone. The air smelled of smoke and wilted flowers. Above it all, the flag of Alexandria fluttered—tattered but proud.
Herzl stood alone, his coat hanging heavy with dust and memory. In his hand, a broken dog tag clinked against a rusted bullet. Behind him, families wept. Children lit lanterns. The names of the fallen echoed from a soft-voiced priestess reciting through tears.
"They fought. They bled. And we… remain."
Elira joined him in silence. No words. Just presence.
Herzl knelt before a grave. The name was faded already. He pressed his forehead to the cold stone.
"I led them to this. And now I lead no one."
A small hand tugged at his sleeve—a boy, no older than seven, clutching a hand-drawn flag. He handed it to Herzl.
"My brother said you'd protect us. He was right."
Tears finally fell.
As the sun set over a scarred kingdom, silence fell—not of fear, but of mourning, memory… and the long road ahead.