The land had begun to heal, but wounds left by war did not fade as quickly as broken walls or burned fields. Though the rebellion had found victory, the ghosts of battles past still lingered in quiet spaces—in the hesitant laughter of children who had only known fear, in the cautious glances exchanged between survivors, in the way the wind carried whispers of memories too painful to speak aloud.
Arkanis walked through the village, his steps measured, his gaze following the people as they moved about their daily tasks. There was life here now—true life, not merely survival. Farmers tilled fresh soil, builders secured roofs atop homes, merchants reopened stalls that had been abandoned for too long. Yet, beneath it all, something remained unspoken.
The war was over. But its echoes remained.
Elara approached from the side, her presence familiar, grounding. "You see it too, don't you?" she murmured, watching the way some carried their burdens with stiff shoulders, their hands lingering too long on weapons they no longer needed.
Arkanis nodded. "They don't know how to leave it behind."
She studied him for a moment, sharp but empathetic. "Do you?"
He didn't answer immediately. Instead, he looked toward the horizon, where the ruins of old battlegrounds still stood—silent reminders of the war they had fought, the lives they had lost.
Finally, he exhaled. "I don't think we leave it behind. I think we learn to carry it differently."
Elara followed his gaze, letting his words settle between them.
And for the first time in a long time, Arkanis felt something resembling peace—not because the past was gone, but because he was learning how to walk forward without drowning in it.
The Remnants of War
Later that evening, Arkanis found himself wandering beyond the village, his boots pressing into the earth softened by recent rains. The fields stretched wide, golden in the fading light, but in the distance, beyond the farms and roads being rebuilt, lay the ruins of the final battlefield.
The remnants of broken weapons still littered the ground. Arkanis could see where trenches had been dug, where blood had soaked into the soil, where men had drawn their last breaths in the name of freedom.
It was silent now, but not empty.
Memories clung to these ruins like mist rising after the storm.
Elara had followed him, though he had not asked her to. She moved beside him, her expression unreadable. "You always come here," she noted softly.
Arkanis nodded. "I have to."
She studied the battlefield, her gaze tracing the uneven terrain, the forgotten remains. "Why?"
He turned slightly, watching the way the wind lifted strands of her hair. "Because forgetting would mean all of this meant nothing."
She didn't argue. She understood.
Yet, as they stood there, Elara finally spoke the question lingering between them. "And when will you let yourself walk away?"
Arkanis let out a slow breath. "When I know for certain that we've built something worth the sacrifice."
Elara's lips pressed together, but she nodded.
"Then we should start," she said.
The Living
In the days that followed, Arkanis made a conscious effort to focus not on the war that had passed, but the world that was now beginning to take shape.
Children ran through the streets with laughter instead of fear. Blacksmiths crafted farming tools instead of weapons. Healers treated sickness instead of battle wounds.
For the first time, he walked through the village and saw life—not survival, but genuine, unshackled life.
Elara and Zyre had spent their time helping establish the council, ensuring that leadership did not fall into the hands of opportunists seeking power for themselves.
One morning, Elara found Arkanis seated outside the newly restored tavern, watching the sunrise with quiet contemplation.
She set a cup of tea in front of him, sitting beside him without a word.
He glanced at her, smirking faintly. "Still keeping an eye on me?"
She chuckled, taking a sip of her drink. "Someone has to."
A comfortable silence stretched between them, until she asked, "Do you believe in it yet?"
Arkanis turned his gaze toward the people moving about—laughing, working, existing.
The world was different now.
So was he.
And for the first time, he allowed himself to believe that maybe—just maybe—their fight had been worth it.