The road to Orlanthe was a gray ribbon cutting through the world, winding between faded hills and fields that were no longer cultivated. No birds sang. No wind blew with force. Only the sound of our steps, the creaking of our backpack straps, and the constant whisper—not of voices, but of memories.
Elara walked ahead, eyes fixed on the ground, as if she could read the past in the dry grass. She didn't speak. She didn't need to. Her right hand, almost imperceptibly, touched the grimoire at her waist—the same one that had been her refuge when no one listened to her. Now, it was her amulet. An amulet she carried not out of necessity, but out of habit. Out of comfort. Because of him.
Vespera walked behind, the bow hanging, but her hands were no longer on the arrows. They were in her pockets. Calm. Resting. She didn't make jokes. She didn't tease. She didn't laugh. She only watched—the way Liriel walked, one step to our right, her feet almost not touching the ground, as if she were still in another plane. And how, from time to time, her eyes met Elara's. Not with jealousy. Not with challenge. But with… recognition.
It was something silent. Something we hadn't named. But I felt it.
Liriel, for her part, didn't look at anyone. But I knew she felt it.
I knew because when she turned to hand me a water flask, her fingers touched mine—only for an instant. And in that instant, the necklace on her neck glowed softly, as if it remembered something it could not say.
"Thank you," I murmured.
She nodded. "It's nothing. Just water."
But it wasn't nothing. It was the first time she had offered me something without sarcasm. Without demand. Without duty.
She didn't look at me again. But I felt that, somewhere inside her, something had changed.
At night, we camped beneath a tree whose bark had been carved with ancient symbols—not of magic, but of poetry. Small lines, almost faded, as if written by someone who didn't want to be found.
Elara sat at the base of the tree, opening the grimoire. Not to read. To touch. Her fingers slid over the pages as if she were caressing something alive.
Vespera, without saying anything, approached. She placed a piece of bread on the ground near her. Then she sat on the other side, back against the tree, eyes closed.
None of us spoke.
But I saw.
I saw Vespera, when Elara took a deep breath, open her eyes for an instant—and smile, almost imperceptibly.
I saw Elara, when Vespera leaned forward to adjust her bow, lift her head for a second—and close her eyes, as if she were saving the moment.
And I saw Liriel, who sat on the highest root, feet swinging, looking at both of them—not with anger, not with disdain—but with something that looked like… longing.
Longing for something that never was.
Longing for something that might never be.
The next morning, we found the first clue.
It wasn't a map. It wasn't an artifact.
It was a song.
A soft voice, almost imperceptible, echoing among the trees. A melody. Not one of battle. Not of magic. But a lullaby. Ancient. Sad. Familiar.
Elara stopped. The grimoire slipped from her hands.
"This… is from my childhood," she whispered. "My mother used to sing this when I was afraid of the dark."
Vespera approached, without taking her eyes off the trees. "My grandmother too. She said it was the song the stars sang to those who had lost someone."
Liriel stood. Her necklace glowed—not with strength, but with a light that seemed to respond.
"It's his," she said. "Zephyron. He used to sing this… to me."
We looked at each other.
None of us said what we all knew.
He wasn't calling us to war.
He was calling us to pain.
To loss.
To everything we had left behind.
The path narrowed. The mist returned—not as before, not as a threat, but as a veil. Light. Transparent. As if the world were letting us through.
And then, in the middle of the mist, we saw him.
A figure.
Tall. Thin. Wearing a simple, faded cloak. White hair, loose. Hands empty. He held no sword. No scepter. Only a small scroll, folded with care.
He didn't look at us with hatred.
Nor with triumph.
But with… relief.
"You came," he said, without moving his lips. The voice came from all sides. From the wind. From the trees. From the silence itself.
Liriel stepped forward. Her face was serene. Without mask. Without pride. Without fear.
"You called me," she replied. "But not to win. To remember."
He smiled.
"Yes."
And then, with a slow gesture, he opened the scroll.
Inside, there were no words.
There was only an image.
Three women.
One with a staff, eyes lowered, but hand steady.
One with a bow, face laughing, but eyes sad.
And one with a glowing necklace, looking toward the horizon — but with her hands intertwined, as if holding something she couldn't see.
And at the center, a man.
With his hands on all of their shoulders.
They were not in battle.
They were at peace.
"I saw you," said Zephyron, his voice now more human, more real. "Not as heroes. Not as goddesses. Not as mages. Not as succubi. I saw you… as people who chose to stay together even when everything seemed wrong."
He looked at me.
"You are not the leader, Takumi. You are the one who kept them together. Not through command. Not through strength. But because… you didn't give up."
I didn't know what to say.
Then Elara spoke.
"You… didn't want to be remembered as a general. You wanted to be remembered… as someone who was loved."
He nodded. A tear ran down his face and dissolved into light.
"Yes."
Liriel stepped forward. She didn't hug him. She didn't touch him. She just stood before him.
"I hated you for a long time," she said softly. "Because you made me feel… that I wasn't enough. That I was just a throne. But you… you saw me. Before everything. Before the power. Before the glory."
She took a deep breath.
"I forgive you."
Zephyron smiled. And then, slowly, he dissolved.
Not in an explosion.
Not in mist.
In leaves.
Thousands of leaves, falling gently, as if autumn itself had decided to say goodbye to them.
Elara picked one up. It was written in familiar handwriting.
"The truth is not perfect. But it is true. And that is enough."
Vespera picked another.
"I didn't want to be a general. I wanted to be your friend."
And Liriel, who didn't move, received one that had no words.
Only a drawing.
Three hands, intertwined.
And a fourth — smaller — holding the edge, as if trying to reach.
I looked at them.
Elara, tears running, but smiling.
Vespera, face serious, but eyes shining.
Liriel, her necklace almost dim, but with the gentlest smile I had ever seen.
And me?
I said nothing.
I just stepped closer.
And placed my hand over Elara's.
Then over Vespera's.
And finally, over Liriel's.
None of them pulled away.
None of them looked at me with expectation.
None of them said anything.
But Elara's hand squeezed mine.
Vespera's, for an instant, slid to my wrist.
And Liriel's… stayed there.
As if, at last, she had found something she never knew she'd been missing.
The wind returned.
And with it, the whisper.
But now, it wasn't of a general.
It was of four people.
It was of us.
And it was soft.
Like a hug that was never given.
But that was finally felt.
That night, we didn't light a fire.
We sat in silence, under the stars.
Elara sang, softly, the childhood song.
Vespera, without saying anything, took her bow and played a simple melody — without arrows, without magic. Just notes.
Liriel, for the first time, didn't speak.
She only sang along.
And me?
I just watched.
Elara, who still trembled, but sang with more strength.
Vespera, who, for the first time, didn't laugh when she missed a note.
Liriel, who, even without a full body, seemed… complete.
And deep down, I knew.
We weren't looking for a villain to defeat.
We were looking for a place where we could, finally, exist.
Even if just for a moment.
Even if the tavern bill was still waiting.
Even if the next debt was already on its way.
Even if the Demon King still whispered.
We were together.
And for now…
That was enough.