As the mighty dragon's wings cut through the clouds and its body arced downward toward Lumisgrave, the sun was just beginning its descent beyond the western cliffs, bathing the city in a golden hue.
The Mythic-ranked warriors — Arslan, Ismere, Vaelith, Yuna, Malrik, Elyra, and the rest — stood tall upon the dragon's back, wind tugging at their cloaks and hair, eyes wide with anticipation. Below them, the sprawling city of Lumisgrave gleamed like a field of gemstones. From the tower spires to the canals weaving between marketplaces, everything sparkled under the twilight. The sight alone stirred something deep in their hearts — a return not just to home, but to honor.
Then they saw it.
The central square of Lumisgrave was ablaze with celebration.
Flags bearing the sigils of the Mythics waved proudly in every direction. Musical horns blared across the rooftops, their notes dancing over the wind like cheers of the sky itself. Golden streamers floated down from balconies, and people packed the wide marble steps of the capital hall. Civilians clapped, shouted, and cried with joy as the dragon circled the square and descended slowly.
Children chanted names — "Ismere! Arslan! Yuna! Vaelith!" — while guards raised gleaming lances in salute. Knights stood in full formation at the steps, their armor reflecting torchlight. The Council of Lumisgrave was there as well — Julious, Parche, Rivers, Camero — all solemn-faced and standing shoulder-to-shoulder with King Farhan himself, who looked regal as ever in his crown and silver-gold robes.
With a thunderous beat of its wings, the dragon landed in the plaza, its massive claws sending tremors through the marble. Guards stepped forward with silk ladders, and one by one, the Mythics climbed down — not as mere participants of P.R.I.M.E., but as victors returning from the warfront of glory.
The applause grew deafening.
The air pulsed with emotion. Families screamed. Roses were tossed into the air. Even the elderly wept openly at the sight of the victorious Mythics. It was more than a celebration. It was history. And at the heart of it stood Arslan, his black hoodie fluttering slightly as he descended the dragon's side, his pale skin glowing softly in the golden light, red eyes catching glints of magic in the air.
King Farhan stepped forward.
His boots echoed sharply on the stone as the crowd gradually quieted in reverent hush. All eyes turned to him — the king who had watched his children of the new age rise. The king who had waited for their return.
"Welcome home," he said, voice loud and unwavering. "To the mightiest warriors of this age — the Mythics of Lumisgrave!"
The crowd erupted once more.
Then the king raised a single hand — and the square calmed again. His gaze swept across each of the Mythics, but finally settled on Arslan.
"You made this land proud," Farhan said. "Each of you. But Arslan—" his voice dropped slightly, charged with raw admiration, "—once more, you proved the impossible."
Arslan stepped forward slightly, his gaze calm yet intense.
"You fought not just for yourself, but for your comrades. You faced the Knights of Eshalorn… and emerged victorious. You held the line when no one else could. You are not only powerful, Arslan — you are unbreakable."
A deep murmur of respect rippled through the square. Some of the younger knights bowed their heads in awe.
Arslan gave a respectful nod and spoke simply, "I did what I had to. For Lumisgrave. For them."
Yuna, standing beside him, smiled softly. "And we wouldn't have made it without you."
The king nodded again. "That is why today, you are not just warriors — you are legends. All of you."
He turned to the rest of the Mythics — Ismere, Vaelith, Seris, Ravik, Zhalya, Kyren, and the others — giving each of them a nod. "Lumisgrave is proud. And will remain proud for generations."
A flourish of trumpets echoed behind them as glowing magical sigils formed above the square, displaying shimmering images of their battles. The people watched with wide eyes as scenes from the arena played out in the sky — Arslan's black aura shield, Ismere's blood echoes slicing across stone, Elyra freezing whole squads mid-charge.
A hush of awe swept the crowd.
Then, raising both arms, King Farhan announced, "Tonight, you rest. You eat. You breathe as heroes. For tomorrow… we speak of what comes next."
The crowd cheered again.
Turning back to the Mythics, he added with a smile, "Until then, no duties. No burdens. Only comfort."
He gestured toward the far pathway—a bridge that led from the central square toward the Mythic Base, where energy shimmered around the levitating towers.
"Now," said the king, "go to your home. Rest your minds, your bodies. You will have no duties today. No missions. No calls. Tonight, you are not soldiers. You are celebrated guests."
He smiled again, warmly.
"Enjoy your dinner. Take the rest you have earned."
The Mythics bowed.
"Thank you, Your Majesty," Vaelith spoke for them all.
Then, with the escort of guards, they began their walk toward the bridge—but not before waving to the people who reached out, trying to touch their hands, crying tears of pride.
As they walked through the archway leading out of the plaza, the sounds changed—from roaring celebration to peaceful whispers of the wind above the city heights. The platforms of the Mythic Base glowed softly under the morning light.
The scent of warm bread and garden herbs drifted from distant kitchens.
Arslan turned to look back one last time.
Queen Maria's dragon was already gone, leaving only sky.
The others, too, turned briefly. Elyra leaned on the bridge rail, hair floating in the breeze. Yuna smiled softly. Tharion took a deep breath, exhaling peace.
For once, there was no urgency. No mission. No training. No fear.
Only the feeling of being home.
Later that evening, the Mythic Base shimmered with golden light as the sun dipped below the horizon. Long tables were set in the dining hall, filled with food prepared by the royal kitchens.
Laughter echoed.
Tharion cracked a joke about Caelis's hair being frozen during the battle, and even the normally stoic Kyren chuckled.
Maelis passed a bowl of crimson stew to Zhalya, who looked at it with delight. "It tastes like something from my village," she said.
Yuna raised a glass. "To survival."
Vaelith raised his in turn. "To unity."
Arslan, sitting quietly at the corner, smiled faintly and lifted his goblet. "To peace... while it lasts."
They clinked their glasses, and silence fell for a moment.
The fire in the hearth crackled.
Somewhere beyond the floating towers, the stars were beginning to appear.
They were home.
And for now, that was enough.