The wind moved like it had somewhere to be sharp, restless, scraping along the broken path that cut through the ash fields. A sky of bruised clouds hung low overhead, casting everything in a pale, faded hue. It hadn't rained in days but the air still tasted like smoke and old magic.
They had been walking for hours. Days. Maybe longer.
Elira sat atop her horse, the reins resting slack in her hands. Her armor bore the scuffs of battle, streaked with soot and dried blood, the red cloth beneath torn and stiff with salt. She barely noticed. She didn't look back. Not because she couldn't but because she already knew what she'd see: tired men, dragging their feet, heads lowered, too worn to speak.
Beside her, Eric rode in silence for a long time before he finally spoke.
"We'll reach the city by nightfall."
His voice was low, almost careful, like he wasn't sure whether she wanted to hear it. She didn't answer right away.
"How many do we have left?" she asked.
He didn't check. "Enough to make it matter."
She gave the barest nod. "And the others?"
Eric exhaled through his nose. "Buried. Burned. Forgotten. Take your pick."
The wind kicked up a handful of dust and ash, casting it across the road like falling snow. For a while, neither of them said anything.
Then, further back in the column, voices began to stir low at first, almost hesitant.
"...that giant. You saw him, didn't you?"
"Not up close."
"I did."
"You lying."
"I did," the voice insisted, quieter now. "He came out of the smoke. No weapon. Just... hands."
Another soldier, older maybe, chimed in, his voice like gravel. "Wasn't natural. Things like that ain't born. They're made."
"Wasn't Kruul, though," someone added.
"Not one of ours either," another said.
"Think he's a Jotun?"
"No Jotun I've ever heard of."
"He didn't even bleed."
"He did," came a quiet voice from the edge of the group. "At the end. When it was over."
They went silent after that.
Eric's gaze drifted toward the horizon, where the sky started to glow gold through the clouds.
"They're scared of him," he said.
Elira gave a slow nod. "They should be."
"But they're also still walking. Because of him."
"I know."
"Do you think he'll meet us at the gates?"
Elira didn't answer right away. Her eyes stayed fixed on the path ahead.
"I don't think he cares about the gates," she said at last. "Or what waits behind them."
The conversations behind them shifted tone. Less debate. More reverence.
"You think they were... I dunno," said a voice just loud enough to hear, "more than just men?"
"What, like gods?"
"Not exactly. Just... I mean, one punched the earth like it owed him something. The other barely blinked and flattened him. That's not something soldiers do."
"It's not something kings do."
Silence followed.
Then another said, "I saw the ground crack under his feet. Not the one in white. The other one. Like the world didn't want to hold him anymore."
Eric gave a dry chuckle. "They're building shrines back there."
"They need to," Elira replied, keeping her voice low. "It's easier to worship what you fear than to understand it."
"You think either of them can be understood?"
She looked straight ahead. "No but that doesn't make them gods."
"Could've fooled me."
Elira didn't respond. Her eyes had narrowed, fixed on something in the distance.
Through the shifting light, just past the next ridge, they saw it not all at once but in fragments: the tip of a tower. The edge of a wall. The faint glint of a polished spire catching the sun. A city rising like a crown above the land.
Lions Gate.
To some, it would be salvation. To others, judgment.
The sun was low now, dragging gold across the broken hills, and as the army pressed forward, the white spires of Lion's Gate no longer shimmered in fragments they loomed whole on the horizon. The closer they got, the more surreal it became. What had once seemed like a distant dream was now a shape in the world, one they could walk toward, one that welcomed them with walls unmarred by the war.
They passed the ridge where old wooden spikes still jutted from the earth, where fires had once burned and the wounded had screamed. Their old camp what remained of it came into view first. Tents that had been left behind, now collapsed or picked clean by weather. A few wooden palisades were still upright, bearing the marks of the siege. Some soldiers slowed as they saw it, drawn into memories they hadn't processed yet.
"That was where Mirin fell," one muttered, his voice subdued.
"Where we all almost fell," someone else replied.
But then came the murmur that swept through them like a quiet wave: "Until they came."
No one said the names. They never did but everyone remembered the moment the sky split and thunder walked the battlefield. The Giant. The black-armored woman who danced like lightning. The one in white who turned stone into ash with a glance. None of them had names here. Only roles.
"Not just the Giant," one soldier said. "You all saw it, right? The other one the thing that hit him. Looked like he fell from the sky."
"You're crazy," another snapped. "That was just a trick of the fight."
"I saw it," the first said. "Bigger than the Giant. Pale, white robes. One swing and the Giant was in the cliffside."
"Maybe that's why the Hero's Triad ran," a third offered. "Even they couldn't match up to that."
"They didn't run," someone else said. "They survived. Same as us."
"Survived because of the Giant. Or whatever he was."
"Bet that robe one was a god or something," someone muttered.
"Gods don't bleed," a grizzled veteran growled. "I saw him flicker when the Giant struck back. There was blood. There was pain."
The gate of Lion's Gate began to rise ahead, enormous and pristine, framed by twin watchtowers. As the army approached, the guards atop the walls gave no alarm. They recognized the returning banners. These were the survivors. The heroes. The sacrifices that had bought another day.
Past the gate, the contrast was jarring.
The war felt like a fever dream now.
Inside the walls, the city thrived.
White-brick buildings lined the wide stone roads, their wooden balconies bursting with flower boxes and drying linens. Market stalls cluttered the side streets, voices haggling over prices, children running with paper streamers trailing behind them. The air smelled of spiced bread and honeyed meat. Somewhere nearby, music played a fiddle, a drum, a woman's voice lifting in a festival chant.
Banners had been strung across alleys and windowsills. Vibrant cloths of red, gold, and blue the colour s of the Hero's Triad. Stylized symbols of a sword, a bow, and a radiant crown adorned everything from cake frostings to carved wooden pendants.
It was all in preparation.
The Festival of the Three.
Some of the returning soldiers stared as if they'd stumbled into a hallucination. A few actually smiled.
"They're celebrating already?" said one, his armor still stained with blood.
"Guess they think the war's over," muttered another.
"Maybe it is," someone offered, almost hopeful.
One man snorted. "It was never their war. Just ours."
The beastkin from earlier looked around at the lanterns and garlands with narrowed eyes. "They were baking bread while we were choking on ash."
A younger soldier, still too bruised to be jaded, whispered, "Maybe that's the point."
Eric said nothing. His eyes roamed the streets with detachment, not hostility. He understood. The city had to believe in something bright, something survivable. Let them put on their masks and celebrate the trio of heroes that carried their name. Let them pretend it was enough.
It wasn't a lie. It was survival.
Elira, on the other hand, slowed as she took it all in. Her gaze swept the decorated facades, the children dressed in mock armor playing at duels, the vendors already shouting discounts for the festival. She wasn't angry. Not quite but something in her chest felt too tight.
"It's not real," she muttered.
Eric glanced at her. "It's real to them."
"But not to us."
"No. Not anymore."
She let her hand drift along the edge of a low wall as they walked, her fingers grazing the white stone. It was clean. Too clean. Not just from blood or ash but from memory. As if nothing outside these walls had ever touched this place.
Eric gave a soft grunt of agreement. "Don't hold it against them. They only know the story that made it back."
"And that story doesn't include the ones we lost."
"No," he said. "But it has to include something."
Voices called from above. A group of children on a rooftop waved paper cutouts in the shape of the three heroes: one with a golden crown and flame coloured robes one with a longbow slung across her back one with a jagged sword pointed skyward. They cheered and threw petals down onto the road.
The returning soldiers passed beneath them like ghosts.
Some looked up. Some didn't.
The petals scattered in their wake, trampled under boots still caked in mud and blood.
One of the veterans a half-blind orc who had marched beside Elira for days gave a half-hearted salute to the children. When one petal stuck to his face, he let it sit there, not bothering to brush it away.
"Bet they'd lose their minds if the Giant showed up here," he grumbled.
Another soldier laughed. "He'd hate that."
"Who was he, really?" someone else asked.
"Not a Hero," said the orc. "Not one of the Three."
"No," said another, younger one. "But if he hadn't come…"
"None of us would've."
They reached the inner tier of the city. Another gate loomed ahead not as massive as the outer wall but carved with care. This gate bore three statues overhead: a woman with a bow, a man with a blade, and another robed figure holding a scroll. The Hero's Triad.
Eric looked up at the statues. He lingered on the sword bearer.
"That's not him either," he said.
Elira shook her head. "No but they'll make it fit."
The gate opened slowly.
And Lions Gate truly welcomed them.
As the returning soldiers passed through, people began to notice. Whispers turned to waves. Applause broke out on one side of the street. Then cheers. Flowers were tossed. Vendors offered fresh loaves, trinkets, even mugs of spiced cider. A mother lifted her child to wave at Elira. A dwarf clapped Eric on the back with enough force to jolt him.
"The heroes have returned!" someone cried.
"You saved us! Thank you!"
"Where are they?" a boy shouted, clutching a wooden sword. "Where's the Three?!"
"Nyra! Luken! Valen!" came the chant from another corner, voices rising above the marketplace.
"They're not with them," an old woman muttered, peering into the column of soldiers. "But they'll be coming, surely they have to be part of the festival!"
"I heard one of them split a mountain," said a merchant with gleaming eyes, handing out fruit to the soldiers. "Swear it on my life, the earth cracked like kindling!"
Elira smiled weakly, nodding, though her eyes never quite met theirs. She caught snippets of conversation grateful prayers, promises to name children after the Heroes, even bawdy songs being reworked with their names in chorus. No mention of the battle's darker truths. No mention of the Giant. Or the thing in white. Just the Three.
Eric offered a raised hand and kept moving, his face unreadable. A trio of young women rushed up with wreaths of flowers, offering them as thanks. One soldier bent to accept his with tears in his eyes. Another just kept walking, shoulders tight.
The chant continued to grow.
"Nyra, Luken, Valen! Nyra, Luken, Valen!"
Children dashed forward with wooden swords and painted bows, play-fighting in the road. One girl wore a circlet of brass, pretending to bless them all. Parents watched with misty eyes.
"They think it's over," Eric murmured.
"They think it was the end," Elira replied.
"It wasn't."
"No," she whispered. "It was just the edge of it."
The horses' hooves echoed down the cobbled streets as the celebration blurred around them. Streamers drifted in the air like lazy ghosts. Eric rode ahead, exchanging curt nods with guards and onlookers, his posture unreadable. Elira trailed slightly behind, her gaze drifting from the upper balconies to the cramped alleys pressed between the cleaner streets.
That was when she saw it.
A narrow gap between two buildings, little more than a sliver of shadow between stone and stair. Her eyes caught the faintest motion a figure standing half in the light, half in the dark. A child.
Not a human child.
The figure was still, too still. About thirteen, if Elira had to guess, though it had that alien thinness the Kruul often bore spindly but sinewed, posture too upright for a child. Its skin was dust-pale, lips darkened, and its eyes... they glowed.
Not brightly. Not blinding.
But deep in the sockets, the irises shimmered violet no whites, only black sclera cradling those unblinking purple embers. Two horns curled backward from its head, not massive but enough to mark lineage. The light caught on its ridged brow and the faint fractal patterns across its cheeks.
It stood in the corner like it belonged to the stone. No one else saw it. No one else looked.
Elira's breath caught.
The child was staring at her.
Not watching seeing. Not like the crowd saw the returning soldiers or the cheering children saw the heroes. No, this stare pierced through layers she didn't realize she wore. Through armor. Through skin. Through mask.
And then it smiled.
The corner of its mouth curled, slow and deliberate. Not friendly. Not cruel. Just knowing. Like it had been waiting for her to notice.
She turned her head slightly, as if drawn, her horse slowing beneath her.
"Elira?" Eric called back. He hadn't seen. The crowd was too loud, too bright. "Something wrong?"
She blinked and looked again.
The alley was empty.
The stair descending into the undercity now visible black stone steps leading into silence. No child. No glowing eyes. Just a crooked lantern swinging gently on rusted wire.
She swallowed hard and kicked her horse forward. "No. Nothing." but her hand hadn't left the hilt of her blade.