The dead burned as names were spoken, one after another.

The Solastrist priests called them with voices like cracked bells, each syllable hammering grief deeper into the ribs of the living. The Animist priests followed, whispering rites over the pyres in the old tongue, their voices swallowed by the crackle of fire and the low keening of mourners. The air stank of burning flesh, woodsmoke, and bitter herbs meant to guide the dead beyond the veil.

Elderwynd had no patience for theological debates. Faith was practical here. You prayed to the Emperor because his reach was long. You honored the old spirits because they had never abandoned you. The rest of the Imperium sneered at this contradiction. The Valeans saw no contradiction at all.

Wulfric stood at the edge of the firelight, arms crossed, jaw tight. He listened to the names, felt them crawl under his skin, settle in the pit of his stomach like stones. He knew who was responsible for this. And when he returned, he would kill the bastard himself.

“You’re brooding again.”

Garett’s voice was easy, but his stance wasn’t. Even behind the visor of his helm, Wulfric could tell he was watching him too closely.

In another life, Garett had been alone. A man of numbers, of ledgers, of responsibilities that meant nothing in the end. He had no brothers, no comrades—only the dull, constant companionship of regret. But here, in this war-torn world of fire and steel, Wulfric stood beside him, burdened by his own ghosts. Garett wanted to reach out, to say something, to make it different this time.

“I brood. It’s what I do.”

“Fair enough.” A pause. “You want to talk about it?”

Wulfric exhaled, long and slow. “No.”

“Alright.” Another pause. “You want to get drunk instead?”

This time, Wulfric huffed a laugh. “Yeah. That I can do.”

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The town was a ruin, but for tonight, there was food, drink, and fire.

Kegs from Vallorien had been cracked open, the thick ale flowing freely. They had butchered four goats and a dozen snatchfowls—scaly, mean little bastards that tasted better than they looked. The smell of roasting meat filled the air, mingling with the tang of blood still drying in the dirt.

Wulfric drank like he was trying to drown something. Garett, still helmed, drank slower, measuring the room. They toasted the Helmed Man, the town’s mysterious savior, and Garett played along, though the irony nearly choked him.

Lyra nudged his arm, her voice lilting with mischief. "You know, it's not every day a masked warrior saves a town."

Garett exhaled, his smirk hidden beneath the helm. "Oh? And what does one get for such heroics?"

She leaned in just enough that he could hear the teasing in her tone. "Maybe I'll show you—if you come with me."

His brow arched beneath the metal. "That so? Lead the way, then."

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Lyra led him away from the noise, through winding dirt paths and half-collapsed houses, until they reached a lone tree by a creek. Its roots curled into the water, tangled and ancient. The moonlight turned the ripples silver.

She crossed her arms. “You don’t talk about yourself.”

“Not much to say.”

She gave him a look. “You fight like a warlord and sulk like a poet, but there’s nothing to say?”

He exhaled. “Fine.”

He looked at the sky, as if searching for something. “I was a man of numbers once. A man of ledgers, of deadlines, of things that don’t matter. I tracked things. But I never lived.”

Lyra tilted her head. “And now?”

He looked at her then, really looked at her. “Now, I live.”

A pause. A shift in the air. Then, a smirk tugged at his lips.

“And if I’m being honest—” he stepped closer, voice dropping—“I only did all this so I could get under your skirt.”

Lyra punched him. Hard.

Then, seeing the amused glint in his eyes, she laughed.

The next kiss wasn’t an accident. The moment stretched between them, taut and breathless, as moonlight traced the curve of Lyra’s lips and the delicate slope of her throat. Garett’s gaze swept over her—how the silvery glow illuminated the soft lines of her collarbone, the way her hair caught the night breeze like strands of woven starlight.

Lyra, in turn, felt her pulse quicken. His piercing blue eyes, cool as the vast expanse of the cosmos, pinned her in place. And yet, behind that unwavering gaze, she saw something else—heat, hunger, a fire barely contained beneath his steady exterior.

Images flashed in her mind, unbidden. The Helmed Man, stripped of armor, skin glistening with sweat, muscles taut from battle. She swallowed hard. The fantasy had been harmless before. But now, standing here, his fingers just barely grazing her wrist—he was close enough to be real.

Garett smirked, a knowing gleam in his eyes. "You’re staring."

Lyra blinked, caught, and scoffed to cover her embarrassment. "You wish."

But when he dipped his head lower, his breath warm against her cheek, she forgot how to breathe. The kiss came slow, deliberate—an inevitability rather than an accident. And when their lips met, the world faded, leaving only the fire that burned between them.

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Behind them, hidden among the trees—

Leona scowled, arms crossed. "What the hell are you doing here, Anya? This isn't your business."

Anya, perfectly composed as always, tilted her head, the ghost of a smirk playing at her lips. "I could ask you the same thing. But I suppose watching over our dear Garett is your sworn duty, isn’t it?"

Leona narrowed her eyes. "That’s right. And Nyx is here for Lyra. What’s your excuse?"

Anya’s expression didn’t change, but a keen observer might have noticed the faintest twitch at the corner of her mouth. "Let’s just say... I like to keep a close eye on valuable assets."

Nyx chuckled, silver eyes glinting. "Admit it, you’re obsessed with him."

Anya scoffed. "Obsessed? Please. I am simply—"

Leona cut in, deadpan. "Always conveniently around when he's shirtless."

Anya's cool demeanor cracked for half a second. "Coincidence."

Nyx grinned. "Sure. And I suppose you just happened to be here, in the middle of nowhere, watching him get all romantic under the moonlight?"

Anya folded her arms, feigning indifference. "If you must know, I was ensuring our esteemed Helmed Man wasn't being lured into some compromising situation."

Leona rolled her eyes. "Yeah, real noble of you."

Nyx sighed dramatically. "Shall we place bets on how long before they stop talking?"

Leona groaned. "Ugh, I do not need that mental image."

Anya, eyes locked on the couple, murmured under her breath, "I do."

Leona sighed. “Well. That’s happening.”

Anya snorted. “Took him long enough.”

Nyx, watching with her silver eyes, smirked. “Shall we place bets?”

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The town of Elderwynd stirred with life once more.

Adventurers from Vellmont, Kaelhurst, and Black Hollow arrived to help with rebuilding, reinforcing the town’s defenses. Two Luminite turrets were being assembled to bolster the town guard, and farmers had begun planting again. The Vale had seen its share of war, but it endured.

At the gates, Wulfric clasped Garett’s forearm in a warrior’s grip, then pulled him into a brotherly half-hug. His clothes were still smudged with dirt and sweat from rebuilding efforts. "You ever find yourself needing a real drink, Helmed Man, come to Black Hollow. We'll see if you can hold your liquor."

He grinned, then added, "And maybe find you a woman. Hell, the whores of Black Hollow have the least hairy cunts in the Vale. Might be worth the trip."

They laughed, the rough camaraderie of warriors unspoken but understood.

Nearby, Cedric hobbled forward on a crutch. He studied Garett for a long moment. "Seen my daughter lately?"

Garett stiffened. Sweat beaded under his helm.

Leona, Nyx, and Anya sighed in unison.

Jerik, Brenn, and Brody exchanged glances, intrigued.

Nissa adjusted her glasses, her expression unreadable—but her lenses fogged ever so slightly.

Garett winced. "Gods, I need another drink."