The road north from AshenVale wound through the Gilded Wilds like a ribbon of packed earth now worn smooth by months of boots and wagon wheels. The Tenebrae brothers and their one hundred five men marched in loose formation, shields slung across backs, packs heavy with trophies: bundled harpy feathers tied with twine, sacks of iridescent lizardman scales that caught the sun like scattered emeralds, small rune-warded pouches of glowing magical cores that hummed faintly against their bearers' sides. The air had changed. Gone was the damp, metallic tang of river mud and blood-soaked ferns; in its place came the rich, heady perfume of high harvest.
Fields stretched on either side of the road, golden waves of wheat rippling under a late-autumn sun that hung low and warm. The scent hit them first—sweet, earthy, overwhelming in its abundance. Ripe grain heads bowed under their own weight, releasing a nutty fragrance that mingled with the sharp green bite of cut hay drying in neat windrows. Pumpkin vines sprawled along fence lines, their fat orange globes split open here and there by curious crows, spilling the warm, sugary smell of baking flesh. Rows of root vegetables—turnips, carrots, beets—had been freshly pulled, their dark soil still clinging to the skins, adding a mineral undertone that grounded the sweetness. Apple orchards flanked the eastern fields, branches heavy with fruit so red it looked painted; the wind carried the crisp, tart perfume of fallen cider apples fermenting in the grass.
Chris inhaled deeply, eyes half-closed. "Gods, smell that. Wheat, apples, earth… I forgot what full bellies smell like."
Tom grinned, nudging him. "Better than lizardman guts, that's for sure. Look at those fields—Father must've worked the neighbors to the bone while we were gone. Never saw this much planted before."
Roland nodded, scanning the expanded acreage. "Extra hands, extra spells. Mother's growth charms, Roselda's touch… they turned the land into a granary. We won't go hungry this winter."
Matthew, walking at the rear, laughed. "Bet the twins tried to 'help' by enchanting the scarecrows to dance. Probably scared half the crows into the next kingdom."
The banter flowed easy now, the kind that only comes after shared blood and steel. Packs clinked with trophies; feathers rustled softly against leather. The men sang snatches of old marching songs, voices rough but joyful, the rhythm matching their stride.
By mid-afternoon the guard quarters of Eldermere rose into view—timber walls reinforced with fresh-cut logs, the thorned-tower banner snapping in the breeze. Captain Ulric Dane waited at the gate, arms crossed, a rare grin cracking his weathered face.
"By the black sun," he boomed as they approached, "you lot look like you've been chewing iron and spitting nails. Welcome home, Sergeants Tenebrae—and the rest of you sorry bastards."
The column halted with a stamp of boots. Roland saluted crisply. "Mission complete, sir. AshenVale stands. Three hundred trained, ten new sergeants ready. Dens cleared, patrols secure. We brought proof." He gestured to the sacks of cores and scales.
Dane's grin widened. "Heard the reports. First battle alone saved their gates. Then you turned farmers into fighters. Good work—damn good." He stepped forward, clasping forearms with each brother in turn. "Tell me the worst of it."
They spoke in turns—Roland recounting the arrival clash, Chris describing the harpy dives, Tom the arrow volleys that turned the tide, Sam the patient harvesting of every kill, Harold and Jeffrey the wards that kept losses to zero, Matthew the final push that broke the lizardmen line.
Dane listened, nodding. "You did more than hold—you built. That's why the kingdom sent you south." He paused, eyes twinkling. "But you've got unfinished business. Clarice's wedding is in three days. You're all on leave—two weeks. Rest, eat, drink, dance. Then report back. The wilds don't sleep, and neither do we."
Smiles broke across every face. Cheers rose from the ranks.
"Two weeks!" someone shouted. "Enough time to drink Eldermere dry!"
Dane laughed. "Try not to burn the tavern down. Dismissed."
The troops dispersed with whoops and back-slaps, heading toward homes and hearths scattered across the town. The Tenebrae brothers lingered only long enough to salute once more, then turned toward the rise where their compound waited.
The walk home was lighter than any march they'd made in months. Chris swung a sack of feathers like a trophy. "Clarice is gonna love these. Wedding veil with harpy plumes—Tyrell'll think he married a warrior queen."
Tom snorted. "He'll probably forge them into a tiara. 'Here, love, wear your enemies on your head.'"
Sam laughed. "Mother'll enchant them to glow when she's happy. Father'll grumble about 'too much flash for a wedding.'"
Matthew piped up. "I bet the twins will drop frogs from the ceiling right when Tyrell says 'I do.'"
Harold smiled quietly. "Roselda's probably woven half the flowers herself—black roses for the Tenebrae crest."
Jeffrey added, "And Eden, Landina, Elizabeth will have sewn every seam. They'll tackle us the second we step through the gate."
The property came into view—familiar timber walls, the garden bursting with late blooms, the barn smelling of fresh hay. But something felt… different. The air shimmered faintly, a subtle ripple like heat over coals.
Chris paused. "Mother went overboard on the wards again. Place feels like it's humming. Wedding jitters?"
Tom chuckled. "She probably layered every protection spell in the book. Can't have harpies crashing the ceremony."
They crested the final rise.
There, on the porch, stood Byrt and Cindy.
Byrt's broad shoulders froze mid-step. Cindy's hand flew to her mouth. For a heartbeat, neither moved—eyes wide, mouths parted in stunned disbelief. Then Cindy's sob broke the silence, raw and joyful.
The brothers dropped packs and trophies. They ran.
Byrt met them halfway, arms open, voice cracking. "My boys… my boys…"
They crashed together—seven sons enveloping their father in a crushing embrace. Cindy joined a second later, tears streaming as she pulled them close, one after another, kissing foreheads, cheeks, hair. Laughter and sobs mingled; hands gripped shoulders, backs, necks—reassuring themselves that this was real.
Inside the house the door flew open. Clarice burst out first, skirts flying, followed by Roselda, Eden, Landina, Elizabeth. The younger girls shrieked with delight, throwing themselves at their brothers. Belfin and Ophelia, the mischievous twins, barreled into Matthew's legs, clinging like barnacles, happy tears streaking their cheeks.
"Roland!" Clarice cried, hugging him so tight he laughed. "You're here—you're really here!"
Roselda pressed her face to Chris's shoulder. "We missed you… all of you…"
Eden and Landina tackled Tom and Sam, giggling through tears. Elizabeth wrapped around Harold and Jeffrey, babbling about how she'd sewn them new tunics. Belfin and Ophelia climbed Matthew like a tree, shrieking, "You brought feathers! Can we make prank arrows?"
The house filled with noise—overlapping voices, laughter, sobs of relief. Byrt's arm stayed around Cindy's waist; she leaned into him, tears still falling as she watched her children surround one another.
A family, scattered by duty and danger, had come home.
In that moment, the longing that had carved hollows in every heart began to heal—slowly, warmly, stitched back together by embraces and tears and the simple, irreplaceable miracle of being together again.