One year after the drums fell silent, Lyothara bloomed.
White flowers—unnamed, uncatalogued—grew wherever the cracks had been. They opened at sunrise, glowed faintly through the night, and vanished by noon, leaving only silver dew behind.
The Great Tree stood taller than ever, its branches heavy with golden leaves that never fell. Children played beneath it, weaving crowns from moon-moss and singing songs no loremaster had taught them—songs that spoke of balance, of thresholds, of a guardian who walks where light meets shadow.
No one knew where the songs came from.
But they felt right.
In the barracks, Thorin trained a new generation of warriors—not in steel alone, but in silence, in patience, in the art of standing firm when the world shakes.
In Silvira, Elyar planted groves where dryads returned, their bark smooth again, their eyes clear.
In the human quarter, Queen Elira and Prince Kaelin broke bread with King Aerion every full moon—a tradition now called the Pact of Three Crowns.
And in Khaz-Dûmhar, deep beneath the mountains, dwarven rune-smiths forged a new kind of weapon: not for war, but for warding. Shields etched with both sun and void, to protect what balance had won.
But every dawn, Lira left the city.
She walked the same path: past the western gate, through the field of white flowers, up the eastern ridge where the wind carried whispers from the Black Peaks.
There, she placed a single bloom—freshly picked, still damp with dew—at the edge of the cliff.
She never spoke.
She didn't need to.
Sometimes, if the light was just right, she'd see it—a flicker of gray in the distance, a shape standing between two worlds.
And on those mornings, the wind would shift…
and carry the scent of ash and starlight back to her.
One morning, a child followed her.
"Who are you waiting for?" the girl asked, clutching a flower of her own.
Lira smiled, eyes distant. "Someone the world forgot."
"But you remember him?"
"I try," Lira said softly. "Every day."
The child placed her flower beside Lira's. "Then I'll try too."
And so it began—not with a name, but with a gesture.
Not with history, but with hope.
Far below, in the heart of the earth, the First Fear slept.
And above, on the ridge, a shadow watched over the city—
not as a king, not as a hero,
but as a promise kept.
The war was over.
The healing had begun.
And somewhere between memory and myth,
a guardian walked—
forever unwritten,
forever watching,
forever home.