The first thing Adam felt was pain.
Not the sharp kind that makes a man scream, but the deep, familiar ache that reminded him he was still alive. His armor was cracked, his sword dulled with dried blood that was not entirely his own. The battlefield behind him smoked quietly, like it was ashamed of what it had witnessed.
He walked through the gates of the capital as the sun dipped low, painting the sky the same color as the war he had just survived.
People stopped breathing when they saw him.
Some knelt.
Some wept.
Some whispered his name like a prayer.
Adam did not raise his sword. He did not smile. He only kept walking.
Victory never felt like victory to him. It felt like something borrowed—something that demanded repayment sooner or later.
At the far end of the road stood Annabelle.
She had not changed her dress since morning. Pale blue, simple, the kind a warrior's wife wore so she would not be noticed. Her hands were clenched together, knuckles white, eyes searching every face until they found his.
She ran.
Adam dropped his sword before she reached him.
She collided with his chest, arms wrapping around him as if she feared the world might take him back if she loosened her grip. For a moment, the greatest warrior in the human lands was just a man holding his wife while she cried into his bloodstained armor.
"You promised," she whispered. "You promised you would return."
"I did," Adam said softly, pressing his forehead to hers. "And I always will."
Behind them, the city erupted in cheers.
Above them, unseen and silent, the Tree of Faith stood unmoving.