A thin veil of mist still lingered over Grimhollow as Valoria's host prepared to depart. The dirt road, dampened by the night's dew, was smeared with blood and mud. Survivors were carried on makeshift stretchers or supported by weary soldiers. Children sat silently on wagons drawn by tired horses, their small frames wrapped in thin blankets, their eyes still wide with fear.
Arthur rode at the front. His face showed exhaustion, yet his gaze remained firm. He knew their return to Valoria was more than just a march home—it was a procession of scars, trauma, and questions with no easy answers.
The first village they reached was unsettlingly quiet. Doors swung open, hearths long extinguished, children's toys scattered in the dirt. A few livestock wandered aimlessly without owners. The place looked abandoned in panic.
A scout dismounted, crouching to study the ground. "Your Majesty, they left in a hurry. Tracks lead into the forest, some northward."
Lionel snorted softly. "They're running from us, when it was us who saved them."
Arthur dismounted and walked slowly through the hollow village, touching a door creaking in the wind. In a kitchen, a pot of burned porridge still sat atop the ashes of a dead fire. He closed his eyes briefly, the weight pressing down on his chest.
A muffled noise came from a barn. Soldiers raised their spears, ready to storm in, but Arthur raised his hand. He opened the door himself.
Inside, a mother clutched her two children tightly. Her face was pale, her body trembling. "Please… don't hurt us…" she whispered.
Arthur knelt, setting his sword on the ground. His voice was soft. "I am Arthur, King of Valoria. We are not your enemies. We've come to take you home."
The woman's eyes darted nervously, doubt clouding her face. One of the children hid deeper against her chest.
Arthur lowered his head until it nearly touched the floor. "I cannot force you to trust me now. But let me prove this: Valoria will not abandon you again."
Tears welled in her eyes. "We heard the cult still lingers… that sickness from the caves will spread…"
Arthur met her gaze. "The cult is gone. What remains are wounds and fear. I swear no one will ever chain you again."
Slowly, she nodded. Soldiers gently helped them out. From the treeline, more villagers emerged—gaunt, filthy, yet with a flicker of hope in their eyes.
Arthur stood among them and raised his voice, steady and resolute. "Hear me! Valoria has not surrendered to the dark. I know you are afraid, I know you doubt. But from this day on, we will no longer run. We are going home. We will rebuild."
Some wept, others remained wary, but step by hesitant step, they followed. The village stirred to life, fragile but breathing again.
The march continued. Along the way, they met more groups of refugees. Some resisted fiercely, others agreed only when Arthur himself descended from his horse to speak. He knew only his own voice could mend their broken trust.
By evening, the long procession reached Valoria's southern gate. The fortress loomed tall, the banners of the kingdom fluttering. Guards on the walls froze at the sight of wagons laden with pale, broken captives.
The gates creaked open. Townsfolk flooded the main road. At first, cheers rose to see their King returned. But the moment they saw the condition of the freed captives—emaciated, limping, some unable even to walk—their cheers fell to whispers of dread.
"Gods…" a woman covered her mouth. "This is victory?"
"The cult is gone, but look at them… can Valoria still protect us?" another whispered.
Arthur heard it all, yet pressed forward, pulling Hadrix's stretcher with his own hands through the main street. Lionel walked beside him, grim but steady.
At the palace, nobles waited. Some greeted him with formal bows, others murmured behind folded fans. Arthur knew the council must soon convene. But tonight, there was something more urgent.
He stepped onto the palace balcony, facing the square crammed with thousands of fearful faces. Torches lined the plaza, their flames flickering over eyes desperate for reassurance. Arthur inhaled deeply, then spoke, his voice heavy but clear.
"People of Valoria! We have returned from the abyss of Grimhollow. Our victory is not without wounds, not without tears. But hear me—the cult is destroyed. Its chains are broken. What remains is fear… and together, we will overcome it."
Silence stretched. Then, a smattering of applause. It spread, louder and louder, until cheers rolled like thunder. For the first time since the war began, hope glimmered in the square.
Arthur closed his eyes a moment. Tomorrow, the council would demand answers on costs, politics, and alliances. But tonight, he chose to stand with his people, to remind them Valoria still lived.
After the speech, he summoned Marcel. "Inform the council the meeting will be held tomorrow morning. And Marcel…" his voice softened, "…bring me liquor, cigarettes, and supper to my study."
Marcel bowed low. "At once, Your Majesty."
The study was lit only by an oil lamp. Cici lingered nearby, her face drawn with worry. Arthur sat in silence, staring into nothing.
"Your Majesty…" she whispered, "you look so troubled. I'm afraid for you."
Arthur did not answer, massaging his temples.
The door creaked open. Marcel entered with a tray: a bottle of amber liquor, a pack of cigarettes, roasted meat, boiled fowl, and a bowl of nuts. He set it on the table and stepped back.
Arthur reached for a cigarette, lit it, inhaled deeply. Smoke curled into the dim room. He uncorked the bottle, drinking straight from it. The burn seared his throat, but he drank again.
He exhaled smoke, then suddenly roared with all his might.
"Aaaaaaarrrrrggggghhhhhhhhhh!"
The cry crashed against the walls. Cici flinched, Marcel froze. Arthur bowed his head, his voice breaking into sobs.
"Life is not easy… every decision I make… never easy! I feel weak… useless… They see me as a firm King, but my heart tears apart each time I choose who lives, who dies…"
He slammed his fist against the table, the cigarette trembling in his fingers. "I was shaped to think with logic, to strip away feeling. But I… I am still human!"
Tears streamed down his face. He screamed again, hoarse. "It will never be easy to rule! Never easy to decide!"
Cici covered her mouth, eyes brimming. Marcel stood still, torn between duty and pity.
In that smoke-filled study, heavy with liquor's stench, Arthur wept—not as King, but as a man breaking under the weight of his crown.