The first light of dawn revealed a silent battlefield strewn with broken spears, spent arrows, and the fallen forms of foe and friend alike. Roland Farter walked its torn tapestry alone, boot-heels crunching against scorched earth. The air was thick with the scent of smoke and spilled blood, but in the hush, he could hear the faint heartbeat of life returning to Ardenia's heart.
Every soldier he passed stared in awe or suspicion; few knew that the walls had stood because of his unseen courage. Mothers knelt beside wounded sons, tears streaking soot-smudged cheeks. Priests moved among the injured, chanting soft prayers. Roland knelt to help lift a wounded foot soldier onto a makeshift stretcher, touching the man's shoulder. "Stay with me," he whispered, voice choked.
The man's fading eyes flickered open. "You… saved me." He managed a weak smile before drifting back. Roland stood, breath catching in his chest. The weight of every unseen life he'd shielded settled upon him like a physical burden.
He climbed to the ridge where the banners of Ardenia's alliance fluttered against a pale sky. Below, Sir Alaric and Princess Althea spoke in low tones with Master Cedric and Lady Aurelia. Roland joined them, heart heavy. Althea offered a gentle nod. "They mourn and they heal today. Tomorrow, we rebuild."
Alaric's gaze found Roland. "The war is won, yet the cost was dear." He turned to the valley. "We must honor each soul lost." Roland felt a tremor of guilt—had he done enough? He recalled the friends he'd lost: the miner who died in the siege, the prisoner turned ally. They were shadows in his mind.
A horn sounded, summoning the survivors to the Field of Fallen—a clearing where white stones marked the graves. Roland followed the procession: knights in battered armor, scouts in mud-streaked tunics, villagers bearing flowers. At the head, a simple wooden pulpit held a single parchment: the names of those who would lie here. Roland read each—a man's life, a woman's dream, a child's promise.
When the first name was spoken, a hush fell. The priest's voice rose and fell like river water. Roland felt tears prick his eyes. He thought of every unseen strike he made in the shadows, every life saved in silence. No one would know—but here, in this sacred moment, each sacrifice was carved into memory.
After the service, Althea invited Roland to plant the first rose bush by the graves. He knelt in the loamy soil, pressed the roots into place, and covered them with earth. As he patted down the ground, he whispered, "May you find peace." His own grief cracked open, but in planting the rose, he felt a fragile hope bloom.
The day passed in quiet acts of compassion: Roland helped rebuild shattered fence-lines, hauled water to field hospitals, and listened to villagers' stories of loss and survival. Bren limped by his side, offering laughter when it hurt most. Talia and Lira tended to children orphaned by the plague and the siege, teaching them simple games beneath orchard trees. In each small kindness, Roland discovered a balm for his own wounded soul.
At twilight, he found himself alone by the keep's gardens. The rose he'd planted glowed faintly in dying light. He touched its petals, soft as memory. A single tear fell. In that moment, he understood that heroism was not only in battles won, but in lives rebuilt.
Roland rose and looked toward the horizon, where the first stars pricked the dusk. He breathed deeply, carrying sorrow and solace as one. Tomorrow, he would return to his duties—scribe for the allied council, mentor for new recruits, guardian for all who needed courage.
In the quiet aftermath, Roland Farter vowed that he would carry every unseen life in his heart, weaving their stories into Ardenia's tapestry. For though his deeds remained in the shadows, their light would guide the realm through any darkness yet to come.