As twilight settled over the shattered battlefield, Roland returned to the keep's northern ramparts, where Talia and Lira stood guard. The horizon still glowed with embers of war—smoke drifting across distant hills. Soldiers staggered back toward Blackvale's gates, wounded and weary, yet triumphant in their step.
Lira leaned on her staff, eyes soft. "You vanished again at the ridge. We wondered where our phantom hero went."
Roland offered a lopsided grin. "Keeping the enemy's shadows busy." He allowed himself a moment to catch his breath. The ache in his muscles was a reminder that even unseen deeds bore a cost.
Talia holstered her crossbow. "The supply lines are secure now," she reported. "No more surprises."
Roland nodded. "Good. Now we tend to the living and honor the fallen." He looked down to the courtyard, where Sister Corinne and Master Brandus oversaw healing tents. Bren guided stretcher‐bearers. The wounded were no longer whispers behind closed gates but faces in the open, each a victory clawed from chaos.
Below, a bard tuned a lute and began a soft lament that swelled into a hymn of hope. Roland recognized the melody he'd once sung at his family's hearth. The song drifted up to the ramparts, carrying grief and gratitude on its notes. He closed his eyes, letting each chord wrap around him—loss acknowledged, victory earned.
Princess Althea emerged beside him, cloak brushing the stones. Silver hair caught the lantern glow. She studied the horizon, where the last embers of sunset faded. "They sing your deeds, Roland."
He tilted his head. "I did what needed doing."
She smiled, sad and proud. "Sometimes the greatest acts are those no one sees." She placed a hand on his shoulder. "Thank you—for every shadow you braved."
Roland nodded, words caught in his throat. He gazed down at the courtyard—sick tents now clearing, supplies unloaded, simple laughter returning. The people he'd fought for were alive.
In the hush of aftermath, Roland realized heroism wore many faces: the noble charge, the midnight sabotage, the quiet tending of wounds. He breathed deep, feeling the weight of history shift beneath his feet.
As the first stars emerged, Lira and Talia joined hands around him—three silent guardians under a silent sky. Tonight, their deeds would be whispered in inns and carved in memory. Tomorrow, Ardenia would rebuild.
Roland Farter, once a nameless mob, smiled at the soft chorus rising from below. In that unspoken song, he heard every emotion he'd carried: fear, sorrow, fury, compassion, and, at last, peace.