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On the twelfth day after the God of Terror had been vanquished, the capital seemed markedly different than usual. In truth, the change had begun the night prior as waves of people, scattered across the lands of Aleisterre, made their way back to the capital and returned home.
And though their numbers weren't large relative to the city's total population, they shared a common trait: they were all professional combatants.
This period after the end of the Selwyn campaign had served as much-needed respite for those who had joined the war—soldiers taking leave to visit home, or simply to enjoy a rare taste of life without the iron hand of military law.
The Nightblades were no exception. Many of them had chosen this day to return. The reason was simple: today was the day they would mourn their fallen comrades, those who had given their lives in the war against Selwyn.
There was no official decree nor mandatory attendance. In truth, this day hadn't even been declared as one of mourning. It was an agreement made in silence, a collective will that sparked this remembrance.
The dead slumbered. No ceremony, however grand, could ever call them back. This memorial was meant only to imprint their memory upon the living, to let them continue on in another form—in the hearts of those who remain.
Though their bodies be dust, let their flames be passed on.
The sky was clear, with nary a cloud in sight. Sunlight streamed down unimpeded, illuminating a wide field of grass just outside the city that had been deliberately cleared and consecrated by the capital's magicians. Some came on horseback, others on foot. The Nightblades emerged from the city one by one, gathering in silence around the field.
They were dressed simply. Few wore formal attire. Most had come in standard patrol armor, or casual linen tunics better suited for the home than the battlefield. The mood...
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