The march back to the city took several hours. The road wound through hills and forests, past fields that had been trampled by the battle, past villages where people came out to watch them pass. The soldiers sang songs as they walked, old songs about victory and homecoming, their voices carrying across the countryside.
Subaru walked near the front of the column, beside Übel and Wirt. Her legs ached. Her head throbbed. The mana exhaustion had left her feeling hollow, like a cup that had been drained to the last drop. But she kept walking, one foot in front of the other, because stopping was not an option.
The city gates came into view as the sun touched the horizon. The walls were tall, built from gray stone that had been weathered by centuries of wind and rain. Banners hung from the battlements, red and gold, snapping in the evening breeze. A crowd had gathered at the entrance, people who had heard the news and come to see the heroes return.
Subaru was not prepared for what happened next.
The moment she stepped through the gates, the crowd erupted. Cheers and shouts and applause filled the air, a wall of sound that pressed against her ears and made her stumble. People pushed forward, reaching out to touch her, to grab her hands, to pat her shoulders. Children ran alongside her, their faces bright with excitement. Old women wept and clutched at her sleeves. Men raised their cups and shouted her name, though they did not know it yet.
The hero of the war. An outsider. A stranger who had appeared from nowhere and saved them from a threat that had loomed over their lives for generations.
Everyone wanted to meet her.
Subaru was surrounded almost immediately. Men asked her questions about the battle. Women complimented her dress and her hair and her strange headwear. Children tugged at her hands and demanded to know if she could perform magic tricks. The crowd pressed in from all sides, and for a moment, she felt like she might be swallowed whole.
But Subaru was good at theatrics. She had always been good at performing, at putting on a show, at saying the right thing at the right time. The old Subaru, the boy from Japan, had used those skills to make friends and avoid bullies and get out of trouble. The new Subaru, the demon girl with the turban, used them to survive.
She raised her hands and spread her arms wide, as if embracing the entire crowd. "Hello, everyone!" she shouted. "My name is Subaru, and I am very happy to be here!"
The crowd cheered.
She told them about the battle, or at least a version of the battle. She left out the parts about dying and coming back to life. She left out the parts about being a demon and hiding her horns. She focused on the parts that made her look brave and clever and just a little bit lucky. The crowd ate it up, laughing at her jokes, gasping at her descriptions, applauding at the end of each story.
The children liked her the most. They gathered around her legs, looking up at her with wide eyes, asking if she could summon a sword or shoot fire from her hands or fly through the air. Subaru obliged them, creating small sparks of light between her fingers, making illusory birds that fluttered above their heads. The children squealed with delight and chased the birds until they vanished.
Wirt watched from a short distance away, his arms crossed, his face pleased. He had seen many things in his years as commander. He had seen bravery and cowardice, wisdom and foolishness, strength and weakness. But he had never seen anyone handle a crowd quite like Subaru. She moved among them like she belonged there, like she had known them all her life.
His eyes drifted upward, toward a balcony on the second floor of a shop across the street. A figure stood there, an older man with a weathered face. Lord Orden. His father.
Wirt excused himself from the soldiers around him and walked toward the shop. The door was old, the wood darkened by age, but it swung open easily at his touch. He climbed the stairs, his boots heavy on the wooden steps, his heart beating faster than it should have.
Two guards stood at the top of the stairs. They recognized him immediately, bowing their heads and stepping aside. One of them pulled open the door to the second floor, and Wirt stepped through.
The room was modest, furnished with a couch and a table and a few chairs. A fire burned in a small hearth, casting warm light across the space. Lord Orden sat on the couch, his cane resting against the armrest, his eyes fixed on the window that looked out over the street below.
"Father," Wirt said.
Lord Orden did not turn. "I heard that you won."
Wirt walked closer, stopping a few feet from the couch. "I did, father. Just as I said I would."
"How many casualties?"
"About forty."
Lord Orden sighed. The muscles in his neck stood out, cords of tension beneath weathered skin. "Tragic." He was quiet for a moment, his eyes still on the window. "Make sure their families are compensated accordingly. Generously. They gave their lives for this city. The least we can do is make sure their children do not starve."
Wirt nodded. "I will."
Lord Orden turned his head slightly, his good eye fixing on his son. "What are the origins of those mages? The ones you hired."
Wirt kept his posture straight, his voice steady. "They were going to attend the First Class Mage Exam. I hired them when they passed through our territory."
"I see." Lord Orden's gaze shifted back to the window. "Is it true that Rivale has been slain?"
"Yes."
"A mage slaying the strongest demon warrior." Lord Orden's voice was thoughtful, almost wondering. "He was as strong as Eisen the Invincible, they say. Perhaps stronger."
Wirt shook his head. "She is stronger."
Lord Orden was quiet for a long moment. Then he let out a breath, slow and heavy. "It is not always the stronger who wins. You know that. You have seen it on the battlefield. Sometimes the weaker side finds an opening. Sometimes luck decides the outcome. Sometimes the gods themselves intervene."
Wirt did not argue. He had seen too much to believe that strength alone determined victory.
"How is Mut?" he asked, changing the subject.
Lord Orden shrugged, a small movement of his shoulders. "He is fine, I suppose."
He turned to leave. His hand was on the door when Lord Orden's voice stopped him.
"Wirt?"
He paused. "Yes?"
"I was wrong."
The words hung in the air, heavy and unexpected. Wirt turned to look at his father. Lord Orden's face was hard to read, a mix of emotions that Wirt could not quite identify. Pride, perhaps. Or regret. Or something else entirely.
"You were," Wirt said. "But that is fine. We won. That is all that matters."
Lord Orden nodded slowly. "You are right." He stood up from the couch, using his cane for support, and walked toward the window. He looked down at the street below, at the crowd still gathered around the turbaned girl, at the children laughing and playing at her feet.
"We could use mages like them," he said. "Offer them a salary. See if they decide to stay here permanently."
Wirt followed his gaze. Subaru was juggling small balls of light, tossing them from hand to hand while the children clapped and cheered. Her face was flushed with effort, but she was smiling, genuinely smiling, as if she had forgotten for a moment that she was pretending to be something she was not.
"I will," Wirt said.
He left the room. The door closed behind him, and the guards resumed their positions, their faces blank and professional.
Lord Orden stood alone at the window, his cane gripped in both hands, his eye fixed on the scene below. The turbaned girl was playing with the children now, chasing them in circles, laughing at their shrieks of delight. She moved like someone who had not had a childhood, or who had lost it too early, and was trying to reclaim it through the joy of others.
"Huh," Lord Orden said to himself. "She looks too much like her."