Hunter Gardan walked with slow, deliberate steps, each one echoing with the quiet power of a man who had survived the edge of death. His aura was still there—like a flicker of distant thunder—but no longer crushing. Instead, it settled around him like a silent vow.
Luenor stood waiting, his body exhausted but his back straight, eyes clear.
Hunter came to stand before him—and then, with a breath that shuddered from deep within, he knelt. His battered form bent low, his hand pressed to the earth.
"I failed you," Hunter said, his voice low and rough. "I failed to protect your father… and the Sureva name. I let your house fall to ruin. I must carry that shame with every breath."
Luenor looked down at him, his heart heavy but his voice steady. "Hunter," he said softly, resting his hand on the old knight's shoulder. "You did all you could. And I forgive you."
Hunter looked up, surprise and grief in his eyes.
"You're the last of our house's true defenders," Luenor said, his voice ringing in the quiet aftermath. "But now… I am your master. And I swear to you—together, we will make Sureva great again.
For a moment - Hunter could not speak, the air choked in his throat. For a moment, he could not move. Finally, he straightened, and bowed his head low.
"I can see your father's fire in you," Hunter said, his voice quavering. "I will serve you, Luenor Sureva. To my last breath."
As Hunter stood again, Luenor shifted his gaze to Mira, bound at the square's border, her head bowed to the ground in another sort of defeat.
"The bandits have lost," Luenor declared, his voice triumphant and echoing in the quiet square. "If any of you still want to fight... now is the time to come forward. You will be faced by Hunter's sword."
No one moved. The few bandits still alive arrived at this moment with their eyes downcast in shame, fear breathing deep in their bones, their bodies weary of defiance.
The bandits bowed down to toss away their weapons, surrender surrendering on their battle-scarred faces, and one by one the last semblance of rebellion disappeared.
___
The village revealed a graphic scene of ruin and relief, crude barricades splintered along the street boundary, and the ground was turned to mud with a cemetery of blood. The villagers and elves moved through the ruin with a quiet purpose, binding each others wounds, carrying the fallen to quiet pockets of rest.
Among them lay Eamon, face dispassionate and serene. He had fallen during the final melee, a simple farmer who had found the courage of a knight.
Thalanar went down beside him and gently closed his eyes with his fingertips. "He died a knight's death," Luenor said quietly, his voice thick with respect. "At the end, he found the strength he was looking for."
Thalanar nodded. "He was a man who was part of the earth. And, at the end, he gave it all back."
A burial was held at dusk, the sun low in the sky with color spilling out like gold and crimson.
The villagers and the elves dug graves along the hill where the forest met the fields. The bodies of the fallen were laid out in neat ranks—elves were covered in leaves woven into their hair, the villagers were covered with rough blankets to hide their still forms.
The bandits were buried, too, although their graves were rudimentary affairs—piles of earth without notice beyond a simple branch placed on the mounds.
Rhea and Hera helped place flowers on the fresh graves, red rims around their eyes but steady hands. The children cried silently, holding one another as the last light retreated beyond the trees.
Thalanar was the first to break the silence, his tone low and calm. "We send them back into the earth that birthed them. They stood here, side by side, as one people—forest children and sons of the village."
Luenor moved forward, his head bowed. "We will remember them," he said. "Not as the fallen, but as those who built the ground we tread on. Their strength... their hope... will live on."
He looked at Hunter with his head bowed and the hand resting on the hilt of his sword. He looked at Valdrak who laid still in the shadows, breathing low and even.
As the fire from the funeral pyre flared into a flame and the sun dropped below the horizon, the crackling of the fire was the only sound of the night, punctuating the silence.
And besides the flame, Luenor swore in silence to himself that he would honor every life given here. That this would be the first step on a path of fire and steel—and the promise he would break.
___
At dawn, the square was still quiet, the air clean after the night's funerals. Lyssari knelt near the edge of the clearing, her hands working the earth with quiet reverence. She planted a sapling—a tiny oak, its leaves bright and green. Luenor knelt beside her, helping press the soil around its roots.
"You promised," he said softly.
Lyssari looked up at him, her lips curling in a small smile. "I keep my promises, Luenor Sureva."
He nodded, brushing dirt from his hands. "Then so will I."
In the healer's hut, Rhea and Hera sat by Hunter's side, filling him in on everything that had happened while he had slept—of the bandits, the battle, the villagers who had stood their ground. Hunter listened with quiet intensity, his eyes dark but alight with pride.
"You did well, Arwin," he said quietly when he saw the young man near the door. "I knew Richard's men were courageous."
Arwin's face turned red, his eyes darting to the floor. Hunter had always been his idol, and the praise sent a shiver down his spine.