The city was quieter now.
Not peaceful.
Never that.
But the howling had stopped.
Gone were the riots that once thundered through the Grand Quarters. Gone were the burning banners of Houses that no longer existed, the ash-thick air of rebellion, and the crimson stains across the palace marble.
Even the Crucible—once a blood-soaked cathedral of screams—sat dormant today.
Now Esgard breathed in silence.
A wounded breath.
A city re-stitched with trembling hands.
The skyline bore the scars of war.
Charred spires reached like fingers from broken knuckles. The southern ward had collapsed entirely—left as rubble when the gods' chosen had descended like a hammer from heaven.
The statues of the old councilors that had once lined the Promenade of Blood had been replaced, too.
Not with heroes.
But with empty plinths.
A silent declaration: none were worthy.
