The village square was filled with quiet murmurs as the townsfolk gathered around the Champions, faces filled with gratitude and admiration. The people looked at their surroundings, the remnants of their homes and streets, now scarred and broken from the battle. They were safe, but many clutched each other’s hands or bowed their heads, regret evident in their eyes as they struggled to find any way to thank the legendary heroes before them.

A soft shuffle broke the silence as an elderly dwarf woman with calloused hands stepped forward, bowing deeply. “We… we have nothing to give,” she murmured, voice thick with emotion. “You’ve saved us all, yet we can offer no reward.”

Caelus shook his head, warmth filling his gaze as he met her eyes. “Please, don’t worry about that,” he said gently. “We’re just happy to help.”

Before she could respond, a child ran up and threw his arms around Caelus’ leg, clutching him with all the fierce admiration his little heart could muster. “Thank you, Sir Vorrath!” the boy exclaimed, looking up at him with wide, wonder-filled eyes. One by one, other children followed, surrounding Caelus with shouts of thanks and admiration.

“I want to be a knight, too!” another young boy shouted, tugging at Caelus’s armour with both hands, eyes wide with awe. Laughter broke from the crowd as more children piled in, some patting his leg, others giggling as they touched his dark, battered armour. Their excitement mixed with his exhaustion became too much, and with a startled yelp, Caelus found himself toppling over, the children's laughter filling the air as he hit the ground.

The other Champions were quickly swept into the villagers' heartfelt thanks, each receiving their own share of gratitude and admiration. Some of the village elders approached Darius with trembling hands, grasping his scaled palms as they murmured words of deep appreciation. Their voices were heavy with emotion, and Darius’s face softened, a gentle smile settling on his rugged features as he nodded and assured them their thanks were enough.

Elira knelt down to meet the children's eyes as they gathered around her, her face breaking into a warm smile as she ruffled their hair and gently patted their heads. Each child gazed up at her as though they were meeting a real-life fairy tale hero. She laughed as one little girl told her, eyes wide with awe, “I want to be a warrior just like you.” Elira’s gaze softened, and she pulled the girl close in a light embrace, whispering encouragement that left the child beaming.

Magnus knelt in the grass beside a small, weary dragonborn family who thanked him repeatedly for saving their little ones from the bandits’ clutches. He spoke to them in a low, reassuring voice, his words gentle as the wind rustling through the trees. With every kind, soothing murmur, the family’s tense faces relaxed, their gratitude for this quiet elven warrior shining in their eyes.

Lorian, meanwhile, moved through the crowd, his own easygoing smile ever-present as he greeted villagers he had healed in the aftermath. He clasped their hands and checked on their wounds, his touch and presence a balm to their spirits. Those who had been treated by him reached for his hands, tears in their eyes as they expressed their thanks, and Lorian responded with warm reassurances that healing them was his honour.

Even Riven, who usually hid behind a wall of detached calm, found herself surrounded by thanks. Several young villagers approached her, shyly thanking her for her bravery and protection. She tried to brush it off, replying simply, “It’s nothing.” Yet a flicker of pride glimmered in her eyes, and despite her cool exterior, it was clear that their words meant more to her than she let on.

And Seraph—always keeping her distance—found herself encircled by villagers offering shy, sincere smiles. They nodded to her respectfully, whispering quiet “thank you”s, their voices laced with reverence. At first, she tensed, her usual aloofness momentarily disturbed. But the gentle warmth in their gazes softened her expression, and she finally let down her guard just enough to nod back, her face filled with a quiet acceptance.

However, as the village celebrated, there were murmurs that hinted at unease. A group of elderly women gathered at the edge of the square, casting furtive glances in Seraph’s direction, their eyes narrowed with quiet suspicion. They huddled together, their voices low but sharp, as they whispered about omens and ill fate.

“That dark elf– did you see her eyes glow?” one muttered, her gaze lingering on Seraph’s white-gold aura.

“A sign of bad luck, I tell you,” another added, clutching her shawl tightly, as if warding off an unseen chill.

The group exchanged wary glances, their voices hushed but filled with mistrust. Seraph’s pointed ears twitched slightly, and though she didn’t turn to face them, a trace of tension crossed her normally calm expression. The warmth of the crowd’s gratitude seemed to fade just slightly, shadowed by the quiet murmurs behind her.

When the gratitude turned to action, the villagers gathered in groups, rolling up their sleeves to clear away rubble, help the injured and repair their homes. The Champions joined them without hesitation, helping clear debris and lifting beams, their armour dusty and worn as they moved alongside the villagers.

After hours of backbreaking work and a heartfelt farewell from the villagers, the Champions finally made their way back to the Helian Academy of the Arcane. The tower-library loomed grandly on the horizon, its spires piercing the twilight sky, glowing faintly in the fading daylight. This was the very place where their journey had begun—a bastion of ancient knowledge and arcane secrets, every wall steeped in the history of Helia.

As they approached, the intricate architecture of the tower seemed to welcome them back, the tall, arched windows casting soft, golden light that spilled out onto the cobbled paths. The air here held a quiet reverence, a reminder of the wisdom and strength they had inherited as Helia’s defenders.

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The vast, towering shelves and arcane symbols carved into the walls lent the academy a sense of age-old wisdom. In the grand hall, King Rowan sat waiting upon a throne, the young ruler’s face pale and solemn as he watched the Champions enter. But at the sight of them, a subtle gleam of excitement and relief softened his gaze.

“We’re back,” Riven announced coolly, her gaze steady as she inclined her head in acknowledgment.

Rowan’s guarded composure slipped for just a moment, a glint of eagerness breaking through. “I’ve been awaiting your arrival. I trust the mission was successful?”

“Yes,” Caelus replied, unable to hold back a small, proud smile. “We defeated the Bandit Lord and his cursed minions.”

The words felt surreal, almost comical. Caelus had never imagined he’d say something like that.

Rowan’s face darkened as he absorbed the words. “Orcs? The orcs of Kur’thar have been our allies for generations… Helia and their kingdom have long been friends.”

Caelus stepped forward, his expression turning serious. “The orcs weren’t acting of their own will—they were cursed. That’s what drove them to become so hostile.”

Lorian nodded. “It was dark magic binding them—undead, almost like zombies.”

Magnus’s eyes narrowed thoughtfully. “It wasn’t like Helia’s curse, though. This one was specifically crafted to enslave them.”

Rowan’s expression grew grim as he absorbed the revelation. “Our old enemy, the Magician who cursed Helia and left it in ruins… his evil has grown. Now he dares spread his corruption beyond our borders.” He squared his shoulders, a spark of determination igniting in his gaze. “But tell me, how did you lift this curse?”

The Champions exchanged glances, a collective awkwardness settling over them. Then, as if on cue, a small squeak came from Lorian’s side, and the Champions turned to see Cheese hopping out of his bag, its small yellow form puffed up with pride.

“Hey! I told you to stay hidden in the bag!” Lorian whispered urgently, attempting to scoop the slime back into his arms. But Cheese, buzzing with excitement, squirmed free, slipping through his fingers and landing on the floor with a cheerful plop. The little slime bounced up and down with determined energy, defying Lorian’s attempts to catch it, and finally settled itself right in front of His Majesty, puffing up as if eager to make a grand introduction.

One of the guards by Rowan’s throne reacted instantly, his posture rigid as he levelled his spear at the small creature. “How dare you bring a monster into His Majesty’s presence!” he barked, his voice laced with indignation. Cheese let out a small, startled squeak, retreating behind Lorian as it shifted to a frightened shade of purple, quivering in fear.

Rowan held up a hand, halting the guard with a calm but firm command. “At ease. Let them continue,” he said, his tone unwavering. His gaze, however, softened as he took in the tiny slime’s trembling form.

Caelus scratched his head, trying to explain. “Well… this slime here kind of… ‘ate’ the cursed enemies, and then they were purified? I… don’t know either,” he admitted, glancing down at Cheese, who had bravely puffed back up, its yellow hue returning as it looked at Rowan with round, innocent eyes.

Rowan descended the few steps from his throne, his gaze softened as he knelt to meet the little slime. Extending his hand with quiet reverence, he waited as Cheese tilted its small, rounded body upward. With a cautious wiggle, Cheese edged closer, lifting a tiny, wobbling appendage to meet the King’s fingers in a gentle touch. The King’s expression softened even further, and he spoke with a sincerity that took the Champions by surprise.

“Thank you, little one,” Rowan murmured, a heartfelt warmth filling his voice. “You saved my people.” His words were filled with a gratitude that seemed to erase the royal distance they’d seen in him before. For the first time, Rowan looked less like a king and more like a kid who genuinely appreciated the lives his people led.

As Cheese absorbed the praise, its translucent body turned a delicate shade of pink, a bashful blush that deepened as it bounced in place, barely able to contain its joy. Elira chuckled, the fondness in her eyes clear as she leaned on her shield. “Look at it—it’s practically glowing with pride.”

Behind her, Seraph rubbed her arms, watching the scene with a bemused shiver. “I’ll be honest,” she whispered with a faint smile, “I still don’t know if I’ll ever get used to that wobbly little creature…”.

Rowan rose to his feet, giving Cheese one last gentle pat that made the little creature wiggle with delight before it turned a bright yellow. With a soft smile still lingering, Rowan returned to his throne, resuming his regal composure as he looked upon the Champions.

“All of you, come forth,” he commanded, his voice carrying authority and gratitude.

The Champions stepped forward, a mixture of pride and humility evident in their movements. As they approached, each knelt respectfully before the throne. Cheese eagerly hopped forward, its vibrant form bouncing with excitement as it joined the others in kneeling before King Rowan. It bent slightly, mimicking the solemnity of the moment, its gelatinous body quivering with a mix of pride and joy. With a small, earnest gesture, it placed its little slime hand over its “heart”, the motion surprisingly reverent for such a whimsical creature. The shimmering surface of its body glistened under the light, reflecting hues of yellow and pink as it gazed up at the king with wide, innocent eyes—two simple black dots that shone with unfiltered sincerity.

Darius hesitated, glancing at the others in brief confusion, but Elira nudged him with an exasperated look, smacking his arm lightly. Realising his mistake, he quickly knelt beside them, sheepishly muttering an apology under his breath.

Rowan’s gaze swept over the group, pride flickering in his eyes as he took in their loyal stances, each one embodying the honour and courage they had carried on behalf of Helia.

“Thank you, all of you,” Rowan’s voice was warm with admiration and respect as his gaze swept over the Champions. “Your courage and selflessness have given Helia something invaluable—hope. Such acts deserve more than mere words of gratitude.”

He raised a hand, and a group of elder mages stepped forward, each carefully holding a small velvet pouch tied with a golden cord. “Please accept this gift—thirty gold coins each—as a token of my deepest thanks,” Rowan continued. The pouches were handed to each Champion, the weight of the coins within a reminder of the kingdom’s gratitude. The Champions accepted them with reverent bows, murmuring their thanks, though their glances between one another held a shared understanding—this journey wasn’t for gold, but for something far deeper.

Rowan’s eyes sparkled as he addressed the group again, a rare hint of enthusiasm in his voice. “But tonight is a night for celebration,” he announced, his voice carrying a warmth that seemed to fill the room. “What do you say—shall we have a feast?”

He glanced around, catching their surprised but eager faces, and a smile tugged at the corners of his mouth.

The hall filled with the sounds of cheering and laughter, a shift from the solemnity of earlier. Relief brightened each Champion’s expression as they shared excited grins, their fatigue momentarily forgotten. Elira and Darius exchanged hearty claps on the back, Darius’s booming laughter echoed through the hall, and even Riven allowed herself a half-smile. Lorian, whooped, lifting Cheese into the air in a playful spin, while Seraph and Magnus gave an approving nod, their reserved demeanour softened by the promise of well-earned rest. Caelus smiled. Maybe this world isn’t so bad.