The twilight skies of Lumisgrave bled a slow stream of gold and violet, casting long shadows over the Mythic Base. After the brutal conflict with King Mamba's forces, the Echelon Knights had returned in silence, their boots echoing on marble floors, armor scratched and cloaks tattered. The Mythic-ranked members moved as one unit through the hallway, not from necessity but from unspoken understanding. The war had ended, but the weight of it still clung to them like smoke.
As the heavy double doors of the central lounge opened, a warm glow spilled out. The hearth fire danced gently in the center, casting flickering lights upon the carved stone walls. The room smelled of dried herbs, faint healing salves, and now—tea. Caelis Morvayn was already by the kettle, coaxing it with frostbind energy to accelerate the boiling without burning the leaves.
"Tea before rest?" he asked, glancing over his shoulder, pale eyes gleaming.
"Definitely," Vaelith Ren replied, slumping onto a padded seat with a tired grunt. "My bones feel like they went through the mountain and back."
Tharion Vale chuckled deeply. "You punched through a mountain of steel. That counts."
The group trickled in. Arslan sat near the edge, silent as usual, a faint gleam of dark energy still flickering under his skin. He hadn't yet released all the battle energy Kar'Thael stirred within him.
Nirela Quen slid beside him and softly leaned her head against his shoulder. She whispered, "You didn't let him break you."
Arslan gave the faintest nod. "He didn't deserve to win."
Maelis Kyrn brought the tea in flower-shaped porcelain cups, floating them carefully to each seat with vines of rejuvenated flora. "To peace... for now."
Yuna Solthrae raised her cup. "To surviving another day."
Ismere Daeva smirked, her hands still red with echo-blood. "To leaving an impression."
The group chuckled lightly. There was fatigue in their eyes, but no bitterness. Only pride, and a tinge of awe at how close they came to destruction.
"I have to admit," said Tarric Vohl, his hand twitching with residual thunder energy, "those Flame Serpents of King Mamba were tougher than expected."
"Especially when he unleashed the third ring," added Milo with a grimace. "I still feel the burn on my thigh."
Ravik Durn, ever the silent stone, merely patted his granite-covered arm and said, "You blocked it with soft skin. That's on you."
Laughter broke out.
Orien Dravell spoke next, voice calm. "It wasn't just our strength. The shield Arslan and Kaelen made... that saved King Farhan."
All eyes turned to Arslan for a moment. He didn't respond, only sipped his tea. Kaelen wasn't there—he had returned immediately to Obreth, the portal closing behind him in a shimmer of silver.
"He was reckless," Seris Vahla said, leaning forward. "But we were all reckless. And somehow... brilliant."
Zhalya Neris, ever watchful with her blood sight, muttered, "The energy readings in that war were... off. Not just from us. Mamba has something else. Something darker."
"Then it's good he left," said Elyra Thorne, her voice chilled with emotional detachment. "Because next time, we won't let him retreat."
Malrik Envor stood by the window, eyes scanning the falling darkness beyond the base. "We won, but the silence after war is deceiving. There's more coming. I feel it."
The room fell quiet again. Just the crackling of logs. Just the soft clinking of cups.
Then Yuna stood. "We rest tonight. We fought like legends. Tomorrow we plan like survivors."
Everyone slowly rose, each bowing to the center—to the fire, to the war spirit they all shared, and to their unity.
---
Far across the valleys, within the Royal Capital, King Farhan stood alone on the terrace of his marble tower. His long cloak whispered in the cool wind, black-and-silver threads shimmering under the crescent moon. The silence of victory was deep.
He watched the stars blink slowly into view, each one reminding him of the many who fought today. Soldiers of Lumisgrave. Dormants who volunteered. Echelon Knights who gave their all.
"Kaelen…" he murmured, eyes tracing the skyline. "Your loyalty is as old as Obreth."
He touched his beard, stroking thoughtfully. The image of King Mamba's fire blade rushing toward him still burned in his memory—and the way Arslan and Kaelen's shield deflected it, as though divine force stood with them.
Then, Arslan—that boy with the shadow inside.
The King looked down at his hands. They had not wielded a blade in decades, and yet today, he had almost drawn one.
But Arslan had stood between him and death. Again.
A smile broke through his royal calm. He whispered to the wind, "Mythic indeed..."
Behind him, Chancellor Harem entered the terrace quietly.
"Your Majesty. Reports from the field confirm total retreat. Mamba returned to Eshalorn."
"Let him burn in his own guilt," King Farhan replied without turning.
"And the Grand Meeting?"
"Soon. But tonight… let the kingdom rest. They earned peace."
Harem hesitated. "Your son... Prince Kabir... will arrive at dawn tomorrow. From Bellmond."
That name brought another warmth to Farhan's expression.
"Kabir... intelligent, curious. A lion with a scholar's heart," the King murmured. "He left a boy. He returns a man."
He turned to Harem. "Ensure his chambers are prepared. I will greet him personally."
Harem bowed deeply and exited.
King Farhan looked back to the skies, where the aurora shimmered in faint streams from the remnants of magic used in battle.
He whispered to the stars, "Tomorrow, the sun shall rise on new alliances... or new dangers. But tonight, my people sleep in peace. And that... is enough."
The winds carried his words across Lumisgrave, over the resting soldiers, across the empty war fields, and into the Mythic Base, where Arslan finally entered his private chamber, Nirela following behind, both weary but undefeated.
The war had ended.
For now.