I was holding Lana, her small head resting against my chest, her breathing a soft, steady rhythm that was a stark contrast to the frantic beating of my own heart. She was sleeping, her face a mask of pure, unadulterated peace, the horrors of the goblin cave a distant, fading nightmare. I asked her maid to lead the way to her house, my own voice a low, tired murmur in the quiet, post-festival streets.
I followed, my own footsteps heavy with a weariness that went beyond simple physical exhaustion. The village, once a vibrant, chaotic symphony of light and life, was now settling into a quiet, peaceful slumber. The last of the festival-goers had returned to their homes, their laughter a faint, distant echo on the cool night air.
