Two months later, the halls of the Adventurer's Guild in Elandra felt different.
Not quieter—never that—but lighter. The war room was no longer filled with frenzied shouting or the clatter of emergency dispatches. For once, the parchment stacks were lower, the messengers fewer, and the tension that usually weighed on everyone's shoulders had finally begun to lift.
Victory did that.
Across the continent, the last two anchor points had been destroyed. Cleansing operations had confirmed that the demonic trace had stopped spreading. Mages reported that the veil between worlds was stabilizing, and even the High Temple had issued a rare proclamation of thanks to the Guild. It was, in every sense, a turning point.
So tonight, Guildmaster Thorne had called for a gathering.
"Not a ceremony," he clarified dryly to his aides. "Adventurers don't care about medals. Feed them, let them drink, and give them a few hours to remember that they're still alive."
And so they had.
