Leon returned to Solfea with Eldorin at his back, the weight of grim tidings pressing heavily upon the march.
News of both the Demon Empire and the Holy Church stirring had spread like wildfire, and what little hope lingered in the aftermath of Morzeth felt increasingly fragile.
Or rather, what remained of Morzeth.
They had not reclaimed a city. Only a memory of what it was meant to be. The march back was long, and along the way, Leon heard it—the quiet, creeping shift in the world's pulse.
Murmurs of war followed them from village to village, carried in hushed conversations and fearful glances. The common folk, those who would bear the true cost of what was to come, had already begun preparing in their own ways.
Some packed their belongings, ready to disappear into whatever refuge they could find.
Some prayed. Some wept. And some… welcomed it.
