The twilight glow painted the dirt road leading into Neosis a deep red. After countless weary days, the city finally rose before them—magnificent yet strangely distant. A gentle wind carried the faint smell of cooking fires from within the walls.
The three of them—covered in dust and grass stains—took their final steps in silence. No one spoke. There was no need.
Aerax suddenly halted, the city gates only a few steps away. A wave of dizziness struck without warning. Before his eyes, the light shattered into blinding fragments. Minoros' voice, calling from behind, sounded as though it came from a faraway dream. His vision blurred, the world spun, then collapsed into blackness. He fell, right before the gate, just as the sun was sinking.
He awoke in an unfamiliar room. High ceilings arched above him, pale light filtering through layers of heavy curtains. The air carried a faint scent of sandalwood and herbal medicine. The sheets beneath him were clean, soft to the point of being unreal. His body felt heavy, as though he had just woken from a long fever. His left shoulder burned—Elion's spear wound still smoldering beneath his skin.
Slowly, Aerax sat up. Cold sweat clung to his forehead. Through the window, the first rays of dawn cast gold upon the curving tiled roofs of the palace. He was somewhere in the heart of Neosis. Safe. For now.
The door opened. Minoros entered, carrying a bowl of steaming soup and a flask of water. His white fur was washed clean of dust and dirt, his wounds neatly bandaged. A soft noble's robe draped across his shoulders. His calm voice broke the quiet:
"You've been unconscious all day. Tomorrow morning, the king wishes to see us."
Aerax nodded. He asked nothing more. There was no need. Of course, the king would want to meet them—to reward them, for he owed them much.
The grand hall of the palace was larger than anything Aerax had ever imagined. White stone floors reflected sunlight streaming through vaulted stained-glass windows, making the chamber seem suspended among clouds. Rows of nobles, officials, and scholars lined the sides, dressed in radiant colors, eyes filled with curiosity. The fragrance of high-hung flowers mingled with the faint smoke of burning incense.
On the throne sat King Kyros, his back straight beneath a pale golden cloak, eyes sharp as if studying a living game of chess. Beside him stood Leos—his hands still bound by golden chains. He wore a simple ceremonial robe, his mane tied neatly, his hair brushed to a sheen. His gaze no longer carried the frozen distance it once did, but something softer—gratitude, even joy.
Minoros and Aerax stepped into the hall. A ripple of whispers moved through the crowd like wind over water. When they reached the center, both knelt. For a moment, silence hung heavy—then applause rang out. First, one person. Then another. Then the entire hall.
From above, petals, ribbons, and colored silks showered down like festival rain.
King Kyros rose. He lifted his hand, and at once the hall fell silent, as though under a spell.
"Today," he said—not loudly, but his voice carried far, "Neosis welcomes not only the return of its prince, but also two souls who dared to walk through hell, defy the gods, and survive to bring hope back to this kingdom."
Descending the steps, he held two laurel crowns, woven from sacred leaves taken from the northern mountains. Simple wreaths, yet glimmering with a faint silver sheen. He placed one upon Minoros' head, the other upon Aerax's. Applause thundered through the chamber, cheers rising in waves for the heroes of the realm.
Aerax lowered his head, uneasy beneath such thunderous praise—he had never been honored in this way before. Yet his thoughts were not on glory or reward. His eyes drifted only to Leos—who stood silently, yet deeply. When Aerax glanced up, he found Leos already looking at him. No evasion. No hesitation. Only a quiet gaze, layered with meaning that words could never carry. Not gratitude. Not mere curiosity. Perhaps it was the first spark of trust.
Music swelled from the orchestra at the far end of the hall. Harps, flutes, and hand drums wove together into a warmth that filled the air. The crowd cried out, some calling Aerax's name, others chanting "Minoros!"
The three of them stood at the heart of the great hall, bathed in the colored light pouring through the glass ceiling. After a long journey, there were no enemies left. Only three souls—each carrying scars, memories, and untold stories. And in that moment—beneath the music, the petals, the voices—something irreversible shifted.
A new chapter began.
Not one of the promised peace. But one of the truths. Of hardship. And of a life worth living.
For the first time in years, Aerax found himself standing fully in the light—no longer forced to bow his head, no longer hunted. Though his wounds still ached, though shadows still lingered behind him, he had stepped into another world.
A world he had seized for himself—by blood, by will, and by a fragment of soul that no god could ever take away.