The sky had dimmed to twilight, the kind of blue that only lingers when the world is holding its breath.
In the eastern barracks, tucked away behind unused gear racks and ration crates, Soren sat on an old bench with a leather-bound journal open across his lap. A stub of charcoal in hand. His handwriting was rough but practiced — the kind of script used to copying orders, not thoughts.
He stared at the page for a long time before writing.
Journal Entry — Day of Return
We walked out of the Darkzone today. All six of us.
Phoenix. Ryliegh. Elric. Vale. Bram. Me.
No one said it, but we didn't expect it. Maybe none of us really believed it was possible until our boots touched stone and someone asked our names.
We bled. We burned. We watched each other bend but not break.
They'll call it a victory, or a miracle, or an incident to be reviewed.
But I don't think it was any of those things.
It was just a choice. To keep going. To not fall.
Phoenix didn't save us. Ryliegh didn't lead us. Vale didn't order us. Elric didn't shield us.
We just stood. Side by side. And that was enough.
Soren paused, staring at the words.
Then he felt a nudge at his shoulder.
Bram sat down next to him, still cradling his healing arm. "You writing your memoir already?"
Soren smiled. "Just… trying to remember it the right way. Before the officers rewrite it."
Bram held out his uninjured hand. "Let me."
Soren passed the journal over.
Bram added, slower, heavier strokes.
If we forget what it cost, then we didn't survive it. We just escaped it.
I still see the trees. The beasts. The blood.
But I also remember Phoenix limping across a battlefield like he'd won a war he didn't want. Ryliegh standing still like a statue while monsters circled. Elric carrying weight like it was part of his bones. Vale watching the map like it was a blade.
I remember Soren cracking a joke with one boot in the river.
I remember choosing to move. Not out of courage. Just because stopping would've meant dying.
We didn't die.
That matters.
He handed it back to Soren, who added one final line beneath it:
We were six.
We still are.
Soren closed the journal and set it on the bench between them.
Neither spoke for a while.
Outside, the wind stirred the flags of the outpost.
And somewhere in the stone halls, a myth sat sharpening a flamberge beside a black knight who hadn't yet learned how to rest.
But in a small corner of the barracks, the story belonged to the ones who lived it.
And that was enough.