Tristan knew he should have been excited as his horse cantered toward Castle Rarington. It only took two miles of riding to exit Wehadon and enter into Stormhold. He was approaching from the east, which took him through Stormhold’s Citadel. Vaya rode beside, haivng agreed to ride with him from his cabin to Rarington.

People came outside of their huts and their homes, low whispers and murmering turning into applause and shouts of thanksgiving at the sight of their hero. Tristan kept his head down, unable to stifle his smiles. Vaya laughed and waved back at the people of Windem, thoroughly enjoying the attention.

“Come on Tristan, wave! These people want to see their hero!” said Vatya, nudging him with her arm.

Tristan reluctantly obliged, pulling his hood back and waving to the people who were lining the streets now. Little boys with their mouths agape, wooden swords in their hands as they watched the hero of Windem ride past on his stead. Tristan thought back with fondness to a time when he was just like the little boys that he saw--back in Sesten with his mother and the occasional visit of Uncle Bodry. It felt like yesterday.

Tristan kept his right hand wrapped with a white bandage. The infection continue to worsen and the pain was crippling. He could hardly flex his hand. Vaya had helped Tristan formulate a plan. Following the two days’ ceremony at Rarington he would ride to a healer in Brantley who was renown for her healing powers and surgical precision. Tristan feared the worst, assuming he might have to lose his hand. The thought kept him up at night, knowing that when he finally did manage to fall into a deep sleep he would dream of his father slipping through the ice--or Basidin and his black mists.

After twenty miles of riding on horseback they arrived at the front gates of Rarington. The outer curtain wall was manned by guards--freshly adorned in the colors of Windem. Capes of black and crimson fluttered in the wind as they pulled on the levi system to haul the gates open. Tristan’s horse cantered across the moat, its hooves clacking on the cobblestone rhythmically. Vaya was behind him, shouting greetings to the guards. Tristan remained quiet, wishing to draw his hood up again.

“The hero returns!” shouted a guard. A few murmers of excitement could be heard atop the ramparts as men scrambled to get a view of Tristan. The stories of his triumph over Basidin hadn’t needed to be exaggerated. It had been a miracle. The prophecies were true--and Saphira herself had spoken them years and years ago.

They past through waves of servants, stable workers, and guards of Rarington on their way through the lower bailey and into the courtyard. They veered their horses to the right, dismounting before they ascended the long, wide stairwell to the king’s palace whre King Darin sat on his throne upon the high dais, waiting to begin the ceremony once Tristan arrived.

Tristan furrowed his brow, spotting the banners of Denderrika--a gray wolf painted atop a light blue banner.

“Denderrika?” he said, confused.

“A decree was sent out. Invitations were extended to our neighbors, Brantley and Solaria, as well as Denderrika.”

Before Tristan could ask if Dalko, Asherin, and Kenton had made the journey the giant polished marbled doors were heaved open, their handle encrusted with jewels that were overlain the gold handles.

At the other end of the Great Hall stood Prince Darin with his steward, Halson, beside him. Bodry stood at the other side of the king and hundreds of guests lined either side of the hall, forming a narrow aisle for Tristan to proceed down. All of the guests stood in silent awe as Tristan entered. The room became silent, all eyes centered on Tristan. Then came an announcement from Halson.

“All kneel for the hero and savior of Windem--Tristan Blackthorn!”

Hundreds kneeled in unison. Vaya urged Tristan down the aisle as Tristan fought to bite back tears. He saw dozens of faces he knew. Nothelm was here, laughing quietly and breaking into a toothy gin. Mildred stood beside Loren--tears rolling down her face at the sight of her son, whom she was mightily proud. Tristan looked to his left and saw a small host of Denderrikans. Dalko was among them, standing in the back corner with a small crown upon his head. He winked, nodding his head subtly. Kenton and Asherin were knelt down, bowing their heads in homage.

Tristan fought hard to keep his composure, emotions running through him like the current of a river. All the feelings of that day that he had confronted Elric and defeated Basidin came flooding back. He had suppressed much of those feelings while he’d recovered in his cabin, but there was no running now. Excited, upset, overwhelmed, grateful, confused…it all ran through him and left him unsure as to how he ought to approach this moment. He took a deep breath, glancing back at Vaya who remained at the entrance to the Great Hall. She gave him a reassuring smile, nodding for him to continue down the aisle and to the high dais where King Darin awaited.

Tristan approached the throne, smiling widely at the sight of Bodry, whose face was etched with great joy. Halson withdrew a thin sword, handing it to King Darin. He was still a boy of thirteen but he had healed well from his bout in the dungeons with his sister, Aliyah. Aliyah was sitting in a chair to the far right of the high dais, a soft smile spread across her olive skin.

King Darin spoke stiffly, reciting the lines that he had been instructed to say in this moment.

“Tristan Blackthorn, for your acts of valor in saving Windem from the imminent darkness of an ancient evil, I hereby knight you,” King Darin placed the sword on Tristan’s shoulder, then brought it over his head to the other shoulder, “Sir Tristan Blackthorn, Lord Ruler of Windem and Wielder of the Sword, Myroniad.”

Everyone in attendance rose to their feet, their applause rippling through the room in a deafening roar. The applause lasted a while, as Tristan turned to face the assembled gathering. Tristan reached behind, withdrawing Myroniad from his scabbard with his left hand, raising it feebly and letting its white light illuminate the room in a cheerful glow. The applause grew louder, which hadn’t seemed plausible given how loud it already was.

“Protector of Windem!” shouted a man.

“Wielder of the Sword!” shouted another.

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The applause eventually died and Tristan placed his sword back in its scabbard. He stood awkwardly, realizing that everyone was waiting for him to say something. Tristan glanced toward Bodry, who simply nodded--his eyes twinkling with quiet joy.

Tristan took a steadying breath, feeling the weight of every eye in the room on him. He had never been one for grand speeches, but with the kingdom looking to him now, he knew he had to say something.

“I stand before you not as a hero, nor as a legend, but as a man who fought for his home.” He swept his gaze over the crowd, taking in the faces--weary, yet hopeful. “This victory was not mine alone. It belongs to all of Windem. To those who fought. To those who endured. And to those who gave their lives so that we might see this day.”

A solemn hush fell over the hall, the weight of loss pressing down upon them all. “The battle is over. But our work is not. Let this be the start of something greater—not an age of war, but an age of unity and peace.” He let his eyes drift to Dalko and the Denderrikans before returning to the crowd. “Windem will not be ruled by the sword, but protected by it.”

Silence lingered, then applause swelled, not as thunderous as before, but laden with understanding. Tristan exhaled, feeling the tension in his chest ease.

As the cheers died down, a figure stepped forward. Mildred stood before him, her face streaked with silent tears, her hands trembling at her sides. Tristan barely had time to prepare himself before she threw her arms around him, holding him as tightly as she had when he was a boy. The room seemed to fade around them, Tristan feeling small and young again in the embrace of his mother.

“My boy,” she whispered, her voice breaking. “I’m so proud of you, and I’m sorry...for everything.”

Tristan closed his eyes, his arms tightening around her. “You don’t need to be sorry, Mother.”

When she finally pulled away, Bodry was there, his grizzled face softened with pride. He clapped a firm hand on Tristan’s shoulder, his voice low enough that only Tristan could hear. “Your father would have been proud, lad. No doubt about it.”

Tristan swallowed the lump in his throat, nodding. “Thank you, Bodry. For everything.”

Bodry grinned. “It was you who did it, boy. I only helped you find the way.”

A warm laugh, light and familiar, caught Tristan’s ear, and he turned just as Vaya stepped forward.

She studied him, arms crossed, a smirk tugging at the corner of her lips. “Well, look at you. Sir Tristan Blackthorn, Ruler of Windem, Wielder of the Sword.”

Tristan chuckled, shaking his head. “It’s just a fancy title. I’m still Tristan.”

“Mm.” She leaned in slightly, “don’t go letting all this get to your head, hero. I happen to like you just as you are.”

He met her gaze, and for the first time since the battle, he felt something close to peace. He reached for her hand, and she took it, squeezing gently.

As the murmurs and movement resumed around them, Tristan turned to face the crowd once more. No longer just a warrior, no longer simply a survivor. A Blackthorn, and a symbol of hope for the people of Windem.

The Great Hall had been transformed. What had once been a solemn chamber of ceremony and duty was now filled with light, warmth, and the hum of celebration. Long tables stretched across the stone floor, heaving under the weight of golden platters brimming with roasted meats, fresh fruits, and steaming loaves of bread. Chandeliers overhead dripped with candlelight, casting a golden glow.

Windem’s banners hung proudly from the walls, their crimson and black colors mingling with the lighter blues and grays of Denderrika, the rich golds of Brantley, and the deep emerald of Solaria. For the first time in years, the great houses of the realm sat together, feasting as allies rather than enemies. Solaria and Brantley had arrived following the ceremony that night, having been encouraged to attend by Mildred, the diplomat dedicated to Solaria, and Nothelm, the ambassador for relations between Brantley and Windem.

Tristan sat at the high table, flanked by Bodry and King Darin, though his attention wandered. His mother was seated near Loren, speaking in hushed tones, and Nothelm was already well into his cups, regaling a nearby soldier with exaggerated tales of battle. Across the room, he caught Dalko in conversation with Kenton and Asherin, the three of them drinking heartily, their guarded expressions somewhat softened. It was odd, thought Tristan--seeing Dalko immersed in conversation; no longer emotionless and cold as stone. The curse had been lifted and Saphira was no longer alive to bind him to her wishes.

Tristan’s gaze swept the room, suddenly spying Vaya. She sat further down the table, laughing at something a nobleman had said, her long dark hair cascading over one shoulder. She looked different here, away from the battlefield and the weight of war…lighter, freer. Tristan’s chest tightened at the sight of her, suddenly fearing how much he had become entranced by her beauty. He recalled the first moments he had met her, when they’d united with Salafar’s men. Her arrow had killed the Veracifer. His perspective of Vaya had been different then. Tristan pushed away his thoughts of Salafar, whom he had greatly liked and admired. He was lost his life in the tunnels, but Tristan had refused to forget all Salafar had done to help him to get to that point. He wouldn’t have defeated Elric or Basidin without Salafar’s help.

At last, as the plates were cleared and goblets refilled, the music began. A small ensemble of musicians struck up a tune, a lively melody that sent boots tapping and heads nodding. Servants hurried to clear space in the center of the hall, and soon enough, the first brave couples took to the floor.

Tristan exhaled, setting down his goblet. He hadn’t ever danced before. He had lived in isolation in Sesten with his mother, where festivals were held miles and miles away. He watched couples dance, dreading the moment that he might be encouraged to join.

He barely had time to consider it before Vaya appeared at his side, hand extended.

“Come, hero,” she said, her eyes gleaming with mischief. “Don’t tell me you’re afraid of a little dancing.”

Tristan raised an eyebrow. “And if I am?”

“Then I suppose I’ll have to drag you out there.”

A smirk played on his lips, and before she could make good on her threat, he took her hand and let her lead him to the dance floor. Of all that he was afraid of, dancing seemed like a trivial fear now.

The musicians shifted to a slower tune, a lilting waltz that sent pairs twirling gracefully. Vaya placed one hand lightly on his shoulder, the other still clasped in his. Tristan hesitated before resting his own hand at her waist, aware of the warmth of her touch even through the layers of her gown.

“You’ve haven’t danced before,” she observed, tilting her head slightly.

“Never,” he admitted. “I grew up far from here.”

She smiled. “Well you’re doing just fine. Just a bit stiff, that’s all,” said Vaya giggling softly. Tristan pursed his lips, knowing she was right.

They moved slowly, Tristan following her lead at first before finding his own rhythm. Around them, the hall spun with color and movement—lords and ladies, knights and soldiers, all swept up in the music.

Vaya studied him as they moved, her expression softening. “You know,” she murmured, “you can let yourself relax a little bit. You’re so tense. Enjoy yourself.”

Tristan’s gaze flickered downward, but she lifted her hand to his chin, forcing him to meet her eyes.

“You did what you were meant to do,” she said gently. “Now let yourself live.”

Something in him shifted then. The burdens, the revenge he sought, the stresses of his quest across Windem—these burdensome thoughts quelled, then disappeared for the moment. He exhaled, a small smile touching his lips.

“You always seem to know what to say.”

Vaya grinned. “Of course I do. Someone has to keep you from brooding all night.”

They continued to dance as the music swelled, the night stretching on with laughter, song, and the first true peace Windem had known in a long time.