Evening - The gates of Eldoria
The sun dipped low behind Eldoria's towering stone walls, casting long golden rays across the crimson banners of the Crowned Lion and Crossed Blades. Trumpets rang from the ramparts, their sharp notes echoing down into the city below. The great gatehouse-fortified, iron-clad, and engraved with years of war-creaked open.
Marching feet followed.
Boots pounded in perfect rhythm, the Crimson Hand returning home from the long and bitter war against Varkoth. Dust rose with every step, catching the light like faint smoke. Citizens crowded the main thoroughfare, their cheers swelling, voices trembling between relief and awe. Children waved scraps of red cloth in imitation banners, while older men pressed hands to hearts in respect.
At the column's front rode seasoned captains, their cloaks heavy with travel dust. Behind them marched rows of armored Crimson Soldiers, swords at their hips, shields bearing the crowned lion crest slung across their backs.
Among them-walking with head held high, armor battered but polished-was Sir Cedric Ironhart. His pauldrons bore scratches of years in battle, but his eyes-steel-gray beneath his dark hair-remained steady. His hand brushed the pommel of his longsword, not in threat but as a reminder of survival. Six years a Crimson Hand. Five at war. Now, finally, home.
The crowd erupted when the first wave of soldiers entered the city.
From the steps of Eldoria's royal courtyard stood King Eadric, tall and imposing in his regal armor, a crimson cloak draped from his shoulders. Beside him stood three daughters of the crown, jewels glinting in the waning sunlight. The eldest, Aveline, was poised in silver and pale-blue silk, her dark hair braided in a regal style. Her emerald eyes watched the soldiers return with practiced composure-until they found Cedric.
Her heart caught.
She didn't know his name, nor his house, nor his story. She only saw the strength in his stride, the discipline in his posture, the battle-weathered look of someone who had lived through fire and still stood proud. Something in her chest shifted, sudden and quiet-an ache she hadn't expected.
Aveline turned her face slightly, concealing the smallest intake of breath. She told herself she was only studying the returning knights. Yet her gaze kept finding him, held too long, lingering in silence.
And Cedric-though he did not yet notice her-felt the weight of the city's eyes upon him. His steps slowed as the army was called to halt before the royal family. His pulse quickened, not for the King's judgment, but for the overwhelming presence of home: the smell of hearth-fires, the sound of laughter, the faces of people who had been waiting.
A moment of stillness. Dust settling. Trumpets fading.
The King's voice carried across the courtyard.
King Eadric:
"Brave sons of Aldoria-Crimson Hand-our kingdom welcomes you home."
The soldiers struck gauntlets to breastplates, the sound like thunder rolling across stone. Cedric's hand trembled slightly against his sword, though he kept his expression calm.
And in the crowd, Aveline lowered her eyes, though her heart refused to let go of the first sight of him.